' 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 
** 

A  Circuit  Rider's  Wife 

Eve's  Second  Husband 

The  Recording  Angel 

In  Search  of  a  Husband 

The  Co-Citizens 


"l     HAVE     HELPED     PULL     MANY     A     PREACHER'S    BABY 
THROUGH    ITS   SECOND   SUMMER." 


A  CIRCUIT  RIDER'S 
WIDOW 


By  CORRA  HARRIS 


Illustrated  by  Walter  H.  Everett 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1916 


ft*!* 


Copyright,  1916,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


OOFTKIGHT,  1918,  BT  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


To 
FAITH  HARRIS  LEECH 

WITHOUT  WHOSE  HELP  AND  SYMPATHY  THE 
INCIDENTS  AND  MEMORIES  RECORDED  IN  THIS 
VOLUME  COULD  NOT  HAVE  BEEN  WRITTEN 


M138394 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"I  have  helped  pull  many  a  preacher's  baby 
through  its  second  summer"  .  Frontispiece 

(See  page  41) 

FACING    PAGE 

"It  is  as  if  we  had  done  him  a  favour 
when  the  pastor  asks  him  to  go  ten  miles 
to  attend  a  sick  woman"  ....  68 

"Lily  may  be  the  spirit  of  progress  in  this 
town  .  .  .  but  if  she  is,  progress 
looks  most  awfully  like  damnation  to  me"  152 

"  'Take  my  advice,  send  this  note,  sit  steady 

in  the  boat,  and  wait  for  what  happens' '       174 

"  'Not  married!'  I  fairly  screamed.  'Why, 
we  heard  you  had  a  wife  and — and  a 
houseful  of  children'  " 216 

"The  overcoat  of  a  struggling  Methodist 
itinerant  is  likely  to  be  faded  by  the 
weather  of  long  trips  through  the  country"  346 


vii 


A  CIRCUIT  RIDER'S  WIDOW 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 


CHAPTER  I 

I  WAS  born  in  Berton.     This  is  an  old  middle 
Georgia  town.     When  I  was  a  child  it  was 
a  crossroads  village  at  the  bottom  of  a  long 
and  very  high  hill. 

My  earliest  recollections  are  not  of  this  place, 
nor  of  my  father's  house,  nor  even  of  myself, 
but  they  are  of  the  travellers  who  came  and  went 
upon  the  road  over  this  hill.  When  a  man  ap 
peared  on  top  of  it  he  was  a  mysterious  and  glori 
fied  figure  dividing  the  horizon,  comfng  out  of  the 
unknown.  When  one  disappeared  over  it,  he 
was  lost  to  me;  I  grieved  for  him  as  if  I  should 
never  see  him  again.  I  believed  secretly  and  after 
the  sublime  manner  of  children  that  the  next 
world  lay  beyond  it  and  the  thunderhead  clouds 
which  passed  above  it  as  often  as  men  did.  They 
were  all  of  the  same  company,  these  travellers  and 
these  clouds,  bound,  for  all  I  knew,  upon  the  same 
journey.  I  feared  what  might  be  on  the  other 
side  of  that  hill  as  young  mortals  fear  immortality. 

3 


4  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

There  was  a  wide,  white  place  in  the  town  where 
the  roads  crossed.  A  post  with  a  board  nailed 
near  the  top  stood  there.  A  hand,  rudely  painted, 
pointed  to  the  printed  sign  on  the  board: 

THIS  Is  THE  WAY  TO  MILL,  OR  FERRY — 
Go  IT,  TRAVELLER,  SAD  OR  MERRY 

I  believed  in  this  signpost  as  if  it  had  life, 
for  I  cannot  remember  when  it  did  not  lean  kindly 
sidewise  toward  the  mill  and  the  ferry,  as  if  it 
had  a  personal  and  friendly  interest,  urging  the 
traveller  literally  in  the  right  direction. 

The  only  church  in  Berton  then  was  called 
Olive- Vine.  It  belonged  to  the  Primitive  Bap 
tists,  and  stood  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  road 
from  the  signpost,  very  old  and  brown,  with  a 
little  chicken-coop  belfry  on  top. 

I  entertained  a  violent  animosity  toward  this 
edifice.  Having  heard  some  criticism  of  Primitive 
Baptist  doctrines,  I  associated  the  danger  of  infant 
damnation  with  it,  also  a  scourge  of  frightfully 
cold  water.  Being  still  very  young,  I  did  not 
know  if  I  should  escape  the  fate  of  the  unfortu 
nate  infants  born  to  be  damned.  As  a  small  child 
I  remember  standing  close  to  the  friendly  sign 
post  and  staring  with  horror  and  suspicion  at 
the  cavernous  doors  of  Olive- Vine  Church,  which 
were  always  yawning  wide  open  for  me, 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  5 

The  only  other  recollection  I  have  of  my  early 
childhood  is  that  I  was  conscious  of  having  a 
terrible  thing  inside  me — a  soul — that  I  was  dead 
in  my  trespasses  and  sins — which  was  very  hard 
upon  my  soul — and  that  I  must  be  born  again. 
If  I  was  not  born  again  I  must  burn  forever  in  a 
very  hot  place,  the  name  of  which  I  must  never 
pronounce.  I  feared  the  long  hill,  because  beyond 
it  somewhere  were  all  the  dangers  of  this  future 
state.  I  watched  and  suspected  the  Primitive 
Baptist  Church  because  it  seemed  possible  that 
I  might  be  caught  in  the  baleful  influence  which 
emanated  from  it  and  have  to  be  baptized  in  the 
mill  pond,  which  was  very  cold  water.  I  was  a 
poor  little  worm  of  the  dust,  wriggling  in  the  tor 
ments  of  my  own  imagination.  It  is  the  fate  of 
most  children  one  way  or  another. 

All  this  was  long  ago,  directly  after  the  Civil 
War,  when  the  losses  and  hardships  of  that  ter 
rible  struggle  drove  the  people  of  the  South  to 
take  the  vow  of  involuntary  poverty  and  look 
more  particularly  to  God  for  salvation. 

Since  those  days  Berton  has  climbed  the  long 
hill,  one  house  at  the  time,  until  now  the  whole 
town  is  up  here  except  Olive- Vine  Church  and  the 
few  people  who  still  belong  to  it.  The  member 
ship  is  smaller  than  it  was,  but  not  less  loyal. 
I  think  the  warm,  debilitating  climate  of  middle 


6  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

Georgia  is  unfavourable  to  Primitive  Baptists. 
It  is  not  because  their  doctrines  are  narrower 
than  those  of  other  denominations,  but  I  have 
observed,  in  my  long  life  among  church  people, 
that  the  quality  of  the  man  often  determines  the 
creed  by  which  he  chooses  to  live.  The  Primitive 
Baptists  all  have  honest,  cold-weather  spirits. 
They  take  their  religion  as  the  earth  takes  a  hard 
frost.  They  freeze  to  Almighty  God,  and  lift 
their  strong  hearts  like  naked  boughs  to  the 
inclement  climate  of  this  present  life.  This  is 
why  the  great  body  of  the  membership  of  that 
church  is  to  be  found  in  the  mountains  of  north 
Georgia,  Tennessee,  and  Kentucky.  They  have 
the  frontiersman's  instinct  and  ask  no  softness  of 
salvation. 

Meanwhile,  here  in  Berton  on  the  hill  there 
are  fifteen  hundred  people,  three  churches,  and 
eight  Episcopalians.  When  the  Methodists  have 
a  pastor  who  prays,  "Forgive  us  our  trespasses 
as  we  forgive  those  who  trespass  against  us," 
the  eight  Episcopalians  worship  in  this  church. 
But  if  we  have  one  who  says,  "Forgive  our  debts 
as  we  forgive  our  debtors,"  they  attend  to  their 
devotions  privately  and  do  not  come  to  church 
at  all. 

I  do  not  remember  whether  the  old  signpost  was 
removed  when  the  mill  was  washed  away  in  9 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  7 

spring  freshet  and  the  ferry  was  abandoned  for  a 
bridge  across  the  little  river,  or  whether  it  finally 
fell  to  the  earth  and  was  no  more,  like  a  good  man 
whose  days  of  usefulness  are  passed.  And  I  do 
not  recall  whether  we  were  the  first  or  among  the 
last  to  move  in  to  new  Berton.  These  are  annals 
of  a  former  existence.  I  have  set  them  down  here 
as  an  old  woman  may  sometimes  show  the  da 
guerreotype  of  the  child  she  was,  wondering  her 
self  at  the  face  of  that  child,  recalling  dimly  the 
thoughts  which  the  child  had  and  which  no  one 
else  knew. 

When  I  was  seventeen  years  of  age  I  was  con 
verted  and  joined  the  Methodist  Church.  I  ex 
perienced  what  was  called  in  those  days  a  "sky- 
blue"  conversion.  That  is  to  say,  I  was  under 
conviction  for  sin.  I  suffered  remorse,  and  I 
could  not  have  felt  more  the  pardoning  power  of 
grace  if  I  had  committed  every  transgression.  I 
was,  in  fact,  an  innocent  young  girl  brought  up 
in  the  strictest  manner  by  Christian  parents. 
Yet  the  Old  Adam  seed  of  all  wickedness  was  in 
me.  It  was  not  until  I  was  willing  to  renounce 
these  sins,  which  I  had  never  committed,  give  up 
everything,  and  consecrate  my  life  absolutely  to 
the  service  of  God,  that  I  received  the  blessing 
and  literally  was  conscious  of  having  passed  from 
death  into  eternal  life. 


8  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

Looking  back  through  the  many  years  which 
have  passed  since  then,  I  can  still  see  the  girl  I 
was,  kneeling  in  deep  contrition  before  the  altar 
with  other  penitents.  I  remember  with  com 
passion  grown  old  and  gray  the  anguish  of  my 
soul,  the  awful  fears  I  had  of  leaving  the  life  I 
had  lived  for  this  new  life,  so  shriven  of  all  my 
familiar  thoughts  and  desires. 

I  can  hear  still  the  rumble  of  many  prayers 
about  that  altar,  as  the  elder  Christians  put  into 
words  the  sorrows  and  terrors  we  could  not  name; 
the  shuffling  of  many  feet  as  the  congregation 
arose  from  its  knees.  And  then  the  words  of 
this  hymn  filling  all  the  darkness  of  the  night 
with  a  softened  sweetness: 

Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken, 

All  to  leave,  and  follow  Thee; 
Destitute,  despised,  forsaken, 

Thou,  from  hence,  my  all  shalt  be: 
Perish  every  fond  ambition, 

All  I've  sought,  or  hoped,  or  known; 
Yet  how  rich  is  my  condition  ! 

God  and  heaven  are  still  my  own. 

I  am  unable  to  say  how  or  why  these  words 
opened  for  me  the  casements  through  which  I 
beheld  the  right  vision  of  myself.  I  was  neither 
despised  nor  forsaken  except  in  some  deep  spirit- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  9 

ual  sense.  I  had  no  "fond  ambitions,"  yet  sud 
denly,  as  these  words  passed  like  invisible  wings 
above  me,  I  was  able  to  renounce  the  guilt  of 
ambition,  of  all  worldly  pleasures,  all  the  doubtful 
things  I  had  not  yet  "sought  or  known." 

I  am  no  juggler  in  spiritual  forces.  I  have 
never  studied  psychic  phenomena.  All  I  know  is 
that  when  I  arose  from  the  altar  as  the  last  words 
of  the  hymn  died  upon  the  air,  I  saw  the  faces  of 
men  and  women  whom  I  had  known  all  my  life — 
and  they  were  different.  I  was  drawn  to  them 
by  a  strange  intelligence.  I  knew  their  secret 
sorrows.  I  believed  in  them  as  I  never  had  be 
lieved,  with  a  love  and  understanding  far  beyond 
my  years  or  wisdom  in  these  matters. 

No  one  who  has  had  this  experience  can  doubt 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  conversion,  by  what 
ever  name  they  may  choose  to  call  it.  And  only 
those  who  have  accepted  this  new  life  and  en 
deavoured  to  live  accordingly  know  of  the  dan 
gers,  the  deceits,  the  cunning  hypocrisies  which 
beset  it  from  within  and  without.  We  are  not 
delivered  who  cry  "Saved!  Saved!"  We  have 
only  enlisted  in  a  longer,  fiercer  struggle  to  live 
again  immortally  well.  Salvation  is  not  free. 
It  costs  every  man  and  every  woman  all  that  he 
has  and  the  whole  of  his  life. 

Shortly  after  my  conversion  I  was  married  to 


10  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

William  Thompson.  He  was  a  Methodist  preacher, 
in  the  active  ministry.  We  had  the  poorest 
mountain  circuits  for  two  years.  During  that 
period  we  must  have  produced  a  dozen  volumes 
of  unwritten  but  hard-earned  scriptures,  practis 
ing  the  Beatitudes  on  saints  and  sinners  and 
trying  to  live  on  two  hundred  and  forty  dollars  a 
year. 

Then  William's  health  failed,  or  maybe  it  was 
his  spirit.  I  do  not  know  which  it  was,  but  some 
thing  gave  way  in  him  that  made  it  impossible 
for  him  always  to  have  the  "witness  of  the  spirit" 
even  when  he  was  doing  the  best  he  could,  and 
that  made  it  still  more  impossible  for  him  to  en 
dure  the  hardships  of  the  itineracy. 

But  he  never  gave  up  the  ministry.  He  "lo 
cated,"  as  we  say  in  the  Methodist  Church.  We 
went  back  to  Berton,  where  he  taught  school  and 
preached  wherever  a  sermon  was  needed,  which 
was  nearly  every  Sunday  to  the  day  of  his  death. 
A  local  preacher  is  the  poor  kin  of  the  church. 
He  must  do  everything  the  other  preachers  or  the 
bishop  or  the  people  demand  of  him.  But  he  is 
never  paid  for  his  services.  If  any  man  deserves 
more  credit  than  another  in  heaven  for  his  min 
istry  it  must  be  the  local  preacher,  because  this 
is  the  only  reward  he  can  hope  to  receive. 

We  lived  together  twenty-five  years  here  in 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  11 

Berton.  For  the  last  ten  years  I  have  been  his 
widow.  And  during  all  these  thirty-five  years 
I  have  been  what  is  known  as  a  church  worker. 
I  have  done  everything  from  urging  sinners  to 
forsake  the  error  of  their  ways  to  holding  the 
office  of  president  of  the  Woman's  Home  and 
Foreign  Missionary  Societies.  I  have  conducted 
vesper  services  for  women,  have  led  in  prayer.  I 
have  fed  the  hungry,  visited  the  widow  and 
orphan  in  affliction,  nursed  the  sick,  prepared  the 
dead  for  burial.  I  have  lived  in  love  and  charity 
with  my  neighbours  when  it  was  not  my  Christian 
duty  to  make  war  upon  them.  And  I  have  for 
given  them  as  often  as  they  have  forgiven  me. 
If  any  one  has  kissed  me  on  one  cheek  I  have  been 
quick  to  turn  the  other — quick  being  the  most 
descriptive  term  there  is  of  me.  I  never  had  any 
worldly  amusements.  But  now  that  I  have  set 
myself  to  tell  the  truth,  I  admit  I  often  wished 
for  strictly  worldly  diversions.  I  have  had  a 
gnawing  curiosity  all  my  life  to  see  a  play  in  a 
theatre,  to  hear  great  and  sinful  music.  I  have 
wanted  to  dine  with  wine  on  the  table.  I  do  not 
care  for  intoxicants.  The  old  Adamess  in  me 
just  wanted  to  look  upon  the  wine  when  it  worketh 
itself  aright  in  the  cup.  I  have  permitted  myself 
to  wonder  if  it  really  would  be  wrong  to  play 
cards  if  there  were  no  stakes,  the  same  as  the 


12  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

best  Christians  play  croquet.  Above  all — and  I 
do  not  know  how  to  account  for  this  depravity — 
I  have  always  wanted  to  see  a  horse  race.  I  have 
reasoned  with  myself  in  vain  about  this.  Why 
a  horse  race?  Why  did  not  my  thoughts  choose 
some  transgression  more  in  keeping  with  my  char 
acter  as  a  church  member,  like  raffling  off  a  quilt 
for  the  benefit  of  the  heathen,  or  speculating  on 
fifty  cents  for  a  month  to  see  how  much  of  the 
deficit  in  the  preacher's  salary  I  could  win.  None 
of  these  ever  appealed  to  me.  I  can  look  my 
Heavenly  Father  in  the  face  and  say  that  I  never 
gambled  for  any  Christian  cause.  It  was  with 
me  a  horse  race  or  nothing.  And  I  reckon  I  have 
known  all  my  life  that  soon  or  late  I  w^ould  yield 
to  this  temptation. 

If  the  people  in  our  church,  who  have  known 
me  since  I  was  young  and  fair  through  these 
many  years  when  I  have  been  growing  old  and 
wrinkled  and  kind  and  tired  into  everlasting  pa 
tience;  if  they  could  see  me,  the  woman  inside, 
often  looking  through  her  strictly  Christian  life  as  a 
prisoner  looks  through  the  bars  at  the  green  and 
pleasant  world,  I  do  not  know  what  they  would 
have  thought.  Sometimes  I  feared  that  William 
suspected  me,  when  we  were  sitting  together  in 
the  evening  after  the  day's  work  was  done.  There 
would  be  a  bright  beam  in  his  eye,  gently  accusa- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  13 

live,  like  a  saint  winking  at  his  own  human  na 
ture,  when  he'd  seen  me  lay  aside  the  paper  and 
sigh.  I  always  read  the  theatrical  news.  And  I 
reckon  I  know  the  speed  of  every  horse  that  has 
run  a  race  in  this  country  since  the  days  of  Maude 
S.  I  cannot  even  yet  resist  the  sporting  page 
of  a  newspaper.  Maybe  William  knew  this.  I 
doubt  if  there  is  much  between  husband  and  wife 
which  is  not  known  to  both.  They  are  continu 
ally  glozing  over  each  other's  sins  and  denying 
each  other's  virtues,  though  they  keep  an  accurate 
record  of  both. 

But  William  had  the  advantage  of  me  in  the 
gratifying  of  his  Adam  instinct  for  just  life  minus 
morals.  He  was  a  teacher  as  well  as  being  a 
preacher.  For  his  own  pleasure  he  read  Latin 
and  Greek  literature.  I  doubt  if  there  was 
a  single  vice  practised  by  the  ancient  Romans 
which  was  unknown  to  him.  I  have  heard  him 
deliver  a  sermon  on  "Blessed  are  the  pure  in 
heart,  for  they  shall  see  God,"  when  he  had  been 
studying  the  pagan  civilization  of  Byzantine  every 
night  during  the  previous  week.  I  never  doubted 
his  sincerity.  I  am  not  accusing  him.  I  merely 
say  that  he  had  the  advantage  of  me  when  it 
came  to  nourishing  his  human  nature  with  the 
ins  and  outs  of  former  human  nature.  There  is 
a  great  body  of  literature  of  the  same  kind  pub- 


14  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

lished  for  Christian  people,  especially  women, 
dealing  with  social  work  among  the  poor.  The 
scenes  are  generally  laid  in  the  slums  of  great 
cities.  And  it  contains  the  details  of  every  crime 
and  vice  practised  by  the  lowest  classes  of  society. 
The  most  erotic  novel  sold  from  beneath  the 
counter  of  a  bookstore  does  not  contain  any  story 
so  informing  of  evil,  so  suggestive  of  perverted 
passions,  as  these  books,  which  are  recommended 
to  Christian  workers  and  which  are  avidly  read 
by  women  whose  minds  would  shrink  from  a 
limpid  romance  of  love,  if  some  one  in  the  tale 
who  should  not  kissed  some  one  who  could  not 
help  it. 

I  never  did  any  of  the  things  one  of  me  was 
always  wanting  to  do — not  then,  afterward;  I  will 
tell  of  it  at  the  proper  place  in  this  record.  My 
strength  then  consisted  in  the  idea  that  though 
it  might  not  be  wrong  to  go  to  the  theatre,  it  was 
a  sin  to  break  the  vow  I  had  taken  when  I  joined 
the  church.  And  the  Methodist  vow,  which  ex 
cludes  all  worldly  amusements,  is  definite  and 
stringent.  I  have  lived  according  to  this  creed. 
I  never  questioned  any  of  the  doctrines  of  our 
church,  except  that  of  apostasy.  I  have  seen 
many  apostates,  but  I  do  not  believe  apostasy 
is  obligatory  or  that  the  Holy  Spirit  ever  forsakes 
a  man. 


A  Circuit  Rider9 s  Widow  15 

It  has  never  been  any  effort  for  me  to  accept  the 
miracles  recorded  in  the  Bible.  If  I  cannot  swal 
low  them  literally  I  turn  them  inside  out  and 
swallow  them  spiritually.  They  who  have  seen 
a  man,  capable  of  any  crime,  with  perverted 
appetite,  with  a  long  and  dissolute  life  behind  him, 
forsake  the  error  of  his  ways,  his  evil  thoughts, 
live  and  die  like  a  saint,  have  seen  the  greatest 
miracle  of  all.  The  fact  that  a  lame  man  walked 
or  a  blind  man  received  his  sight  is  tame  in  com 
parison  with  that.  I  have  seen  this  happen  too 
often  to  question  any  easier  miracle  like  Jonah's 
involuntary  triumph  over  the  whale.  And  it  is 
not  that  I  believe  in  the  doctrine  which  teaches 
the  divinity  of  Jesus  because  it  is  a  doctrine;  but 
when  men  and  women  accept  Him  as  the  way, 
the  truth,  and  the  light,  I  believe  in  His  divinity 
because  such  people  do  become  divinely  good. 

I  have  never  read  a  book  on  theology  or  social 
or  political  economy.  I  am  only  a  little  old  sun 
down  woman  living  inside  one  church  in  a  little 
old  sundown  town.  I  do  not  know  why  in  all  this 
time  I  have  not  acquired  a  wider  vision  of  the 
world,  the  institutions  and  ideals  which  make  the 
world  what  it  is.  I  do  not  know  why  this  town, 
situated  as  it  is  in  a  fertile  section  near  the  limit 
less  water  power  of  a  river,  and  blessed  with  a  good 
climate,  has  not  become  a  large  and  wealthy  city 


16  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

with  many  factories  and  other  industries.  But 
it  has  not.  Sometimes  I  think  the  explanation  is 
that  the  scenes  of  our  souls  are  laid  in  another 
world,  not  this  one.  So  Berton  with  its  fifteen 
hundred  people  built  four  churches  and  supports 
them  out  of  its  very  limited  means,  instead  of 
building  factories  and  growing  rich  from  the 
dividends.  That  looks  bad,  but  after  all  it  may 
not  be  so  bad  as  it  looks — it  depends  upon  your 
standard  of  values.  If  we  really  are  citizens  of 
a  far  country,  only  sojourners  here,  what  is  the 
wisdom  of  acquiring  riches  in  this  present  world 
and  subjecting  ourselves  to  the  temptations  of 
wealth,  which  put  us  through  the  eye  of  a  needle 
into  the  kingdom  of  heaven — very  attenuated,  if 
we  squeeze  through  at  all? 

As  for  me,  I  have  studied  just  two  things  for 
more  than  thirty  years — the  will  of  God  and  the 
heart  of  man — with  the  Bible  on  my  knees  and  a 
pair  of  steel-rimmed  spectacles  on  my  nose.  A 
man  who  has  lived  in  the  world  can  tell  me  more 
of  what  goes  on  there  than  I  ever  dreamed  of. 
But  you  cannot  tell  me  much  that  I  do  not  know 
already  about  the  inside  nature  of  just  the  one 
man  and  the  one  woman.  It  matters  not  whether 
he  is  scholar,  philosopher,  saint  or  criminal,  he 
is  bound  to  be  a  man.  And  when  you  reduce 
him  to  that  everlasting  formula  he  is  equal  to 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  17 

the  same  temptations,  to  the  same  capacities  for 
doing  good  or  evil.  He  may  show  or  conceal 
more  or  less  of  what  is  in  him,  but  the  very  heart 
of  him  is  the  same  as  that  of  my  neighbour  across 
the  street.  And  if  I  could  tell  what  I  know  about 
him  it  wouldn't  differ  much  from  that  of  the 
greatest  man  or  the  meanest  man  living. 

The  biggest,  most  important  thing  I  have  known 
anything  about  is  the  Methodist  Church.  I  can 
remember  when  we  had  "class  meetings,"  and 
literally  told  each  other  what  was  the  matter  with 
OUT  souls,  and  when  we  prayed  for  each  other  by 
name.  That  was  long  ago,  when  I  was  a  young 
woman.  Somebody  was  always  on  the  sick  list 
spiritually  then,  and  strangely  candid  about  his 
suspicions  of  himself.  I  shall  never  forget  Brother 
Elrod's  trouble,  which  he  disclosed  with  morbid 
anguish  at  one  of  these  meetings.  I  remember  it 
because  the  point  he  made  caused  as  much  dis 
turbance  in  this  town  as  would  to-day  some  new 
theory  of  socialism.  The  men  discussed  it  on 
the  streets,  grew  heated  in  their  arguments  and 
fell  out  with  one  another.  Women  looked  one 
another  in  the  face  and  silently  put  the  same 
question,  though  it  was  too  delicate  and  nearly 
kin  to  our  secret  convictions  concerning  our  real 
state  for  us  openly  to  embarrass  each  other  with 
it. 


18  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

Brother  Elrod  was  a  very  tall,  gable-headed 
man,  narrow  through  the  shoulders  and  extremely 
perpendicular  up  to  his  long  neck,  upon  which  he 
literally  hung  his  head.  This  head  was  fringed, 
but  not  covered,  with  wisps  of  red  hair.  He 
wore  a  goat-shaped  beard  upon  his  chin  which 
was  also  flaming  red.  He  was  astonishingly 
homely,  and  always  looked  at  you  with  a  mild, 
pleasing  expression  as  if  he  knew  something  good 
about  you.  The  trouble  with  him  was  that  he 
had  more  brains  than  he  knew  how  to  use.  This 
is  a  very  common  affliction,  and  is  incurable  in 
most  people.  He  had  an  analytical,  ingrowing 
mind  which  often  backed  him  into  purely  im 
aginary  difficulties. 

Upon  this  particular  occasion  we  assembled  in 
the  church  one  night  for  class  meeting,  a  dozen 
men  and  women,  sitting  in  the  brown  shadows 
which  the  lamps  in  brackets  on  the  wall  defined 
but  could  not  dispel.  We  began  by  singing  "His 
Loving  Kindness,  Oh,  How  Great."  Then  some 
one  led  in  prayer.  After  that  came  the  "experi 


ences." 


In  those  days  the  test  of  Christian  character 
and  fortitude  was  this,  that  a  man  should  be 
willing  to  do  anything  for  Christ's  sake.  One  of 
the  elder  members  of  the  class  had  something  to 
say  about  that.  He  put  the  question  to  us 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  19 

squarely  and  bade  us  search  our  hearts  before  we 
answered. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  while  we  sat 
looking  up  at  him,  standing  before  us  like  an  old 
prophet  in  the  gloom,  with  his  long  white  beard 
flowing  down  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  us.  Sud 
denly  there  was  a  shuffling  of  feet  behind  us. 
Brother  Elrod  arose  two  seats  back,  as  if  he  had 
reasons  for  a  spiritual  quarantine  against  those 
present. 

"Brother  Wimberly,"  he  began  dolorously, 
"you've  hit  the  nail  on  the  head  so  far  as  I'm  con 
cerned.  And  I  ask  the  prayers  of  all  Christian 
people  that  I  may  have  the  courage  to  get  through 
this  trial  of  my  faith." 

We  turned  about  and  stared  at  him.  He  stood 
with  both  hands  resting  upon  the  back  of  the 
seat  in  front  of  him,  head  bowed  and  the  bald 
gable  of  it  glistening  at  us. 

"What  is  your  trouble,  Brother  Elrod?"  asked 
Brother  Wimberly. 

"Just  what  you  mentioned  a  while  ago.  There's 
one  thing  I  ain't  willing  to  do  or  to  be  for  the 
Lord,"  he  answered  wofully. 

We  were  astonished.  Everybody  in  the  church 
recognized  John  Elrod  as  a  thoroughly  consecrated 
man.  Naturally  we  wondered  what  dark  temp 
tation  had  assailed  the  soul  of  this  saint. 


20  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"Can  you  mention  it,  brother,  the  thing  that's 
in  the  way?"  asked  Wimberly  solemnly  after  a 
pause. 

"I  don't  know  if  I  can  make  you  understand, 
but  it's  mighty  near  driven  me  crazy  since  I  first 
thought  of  it  a  week  ago,"  the  stricken  man 
began.  He  hesitated,  and  then  blurted  out:  "It's 
this — I  ain't  willing  to  be  a  fool  for  Christ's  sake. 
I'm — I'm  brain  proud,  Brother  Wimberly,  that's 
what  I  am,  and  I  never  knowed  a  thing  about  it 
until  the  thought  struck  me  when  I  was  searching 
myself  one  day  just  to  see  if  I  was  all  right." 

"But  the  Lord  don't  require  of  any  man  that 
he  should  be  a  fool  if  he  kin  help  it!"  gasped 
Wimberly. 

"I  know  he  don't,  but  that  ain't  the  p'int.  If 
he  was  to  demand  of  me  that  I  should  appear  a 
fool  before  my  neighbours — well,  I  just  couldn't 
do  it.  So  it  comes  to  the  same  thing,"  he  answered. 

Brother  Wimberly  was  so  taken  aback  by  the 
shrewdness  of  this  reasoning  that  he  groaned. 
But  William,  who  was  sitting  beside  me,  let  out  a 
laugh  as  he  reached  back  over  the  benches  for 
Elrod's  hand. 

"Well,  don't  let  that  bother  you  any  more, 
Brother  Elrod,"  he  said,  "for  you  have  done  it 
anyhow,  even  if  the  Lord  doesn't  require  it  of 
you.  You've  made  a  fool  of  yourself  before  us 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widmv  21 

all  here  to-night.  Your  conscience  ought  to  be 
satisfied." 

Strange  to  relate,  it  was.  We  Jheard  no  more 
of  Elrod's  "brain  pride,"  although  the  hairsplitting 
point  he  raised  furnished  the  occasion  for  many 
arguments.  Morbid  introspection  like  this  fi 
nally  led  to  the  abolishment  of  class  meetings,  but 
in  those  days  we  had  many  men  and  women  who 
were  literally  consecrated  to  the  Christian  life. 
I  remember  when  a  pastor  was  considered  the 
only  fit  man  to  conduct  his  revival  services.  And 
we  had  revivals,  even  if  it  took  him  six  weeks  to 
stir  the  people  up  and  bring  them  to  the  annual 
realization  of  their  backslidden  condition. 

Then  came  a  period  when  we  imported  a  pro 
fessional  evangelist  with  his  own  singers  and  ex- 
horters.  I  may  be  narrow  and  bigoted,  but  I 
never  prized  these  outside  hired  labourers  in  the 
Lord's  vineyard.  They  seem  to  dispense  a  sort 
of  patent-medicine  salvation  which  fools  you  but 
does  not  really  cure  you  of  your  sins.  If  your  own 
pastor,  who  knows  your  downsittings  and  up 
risings,  your  every-day-in-the-year  weaknesses 
and  faults,  cannot  awaken  you  to  a  sense  of  your 
lost  and  undone  condition,  it  is  a  sign  that  he 
lacks  courage  or  faith,  or  that  you  just  naturally 
prefer  your  sins — in  which  case  the  professional 
evangelist  may  induce  you  to  claim  an  easy  re- 


22  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

demption.  But  we  who  live  with  you  and  deal 
with  you  after  the  singing  and  shouting  is  over 
know  you  are  not  really  cleansed  of  your  trans 
gressions. 

In  these  latter  years  there  has  been  a  reaction 
against  travelling  evangelists.  And  I  have  seen 
the  Berton  Methodist  Church  divided  by  the 
bitterest  feud  between  members  who  wanted  Bob 
Somebody  to  come  and  revive  them,  and  those 
who  would  rather  die  in  their  transgressions  than 
to  be  converted  by  an  imported  preacher. 

It  seems  that  we  must  be  divided  by  something. 
There  was  a  time  when  people  quit  the  church  be 
cause  the  stove  was  put  in  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
church  instead  of  in  the  middle  where  they  wanted 
it.  I  have  known  this  town  to  be  like  two  armed 
camps  after  an  unusually  successful  revival  held 
by  the  Methodists  because  most  of  the  converts 
joined  the  Baptist  Church.  I  cannot  tell  how 
many  times  I  have  seen  that  happen.  After  we'd 
struggled  through  maybe  a  six  weeks'  revival,  after 
we'd  led  them  to  the  altar  and  wrestled  for  them 
night  after  night  in  prayer,  it  did  seem  ungrateful 
to  call  our  bluff  that  way.  For  Methodists  hold 
that  the  chief  thing  is  to  repent  and  believe  on  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  that  it  makes  no  differ 
ence  what  church  you  join.  Still,  I  have  known 
half  the  Christian  workers  among  the  Methodists 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  23 

here  to  backslide  with  righteous  indignation  when 
we  were  put  to  this  test. 

When  all  is  said  and  done,  the  most  varied  and 
exciting  life  in  this  world  is  that  of  a  Christian, 
provided  you  keep  up  with  the  way  your  neigh 
bours  live  it  and  the  ingenuous  ways  they  manage 
to  slip  through  and  rest  from  living  it.  I  have 
never  been  backward  in  this  kind  of  enterprise. 
When  your  world  is  narrowed  down  to  one  town 
and  to  one  church  in  that  town,  you  do  not  study 
geography  of  nations;  you  study  your  neighbour, 
and  you  know  him,  if  you  can,  even  better  than 
he  knows  you.  I  reckon  I  am  about  as  well 
acquainted  with  Berton  and  the  people  in  it  as  the 
Recording  Angel  is. 

With  the  exception  of  those  two  years  we  had  in 
the  itineracy,  I  have  always  lived  there,  never  been 
anywhere  unless  it  was  to  attend  a  revival  or  a 
missionary  meeting.  The  only  change  of  scenes 
I  had  for  thirty  years  was  just  a  change  of  pastors 
in  our  church.  Every  time  a  new  preacher  comes 
he  brings  a  new  setting  for  the  same  old  gospel. 
One  magnifies  the  glory  of  God,  another  His  in 
finite  mercies.  One  cries,  "Repent!  Repent,  for 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  at  hand."  Another 
founds  his  ministry  upon  this:  "Come  unto  me,  all 
ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give 
you  rest."  Now  and  then  we  get  an  old  cross- 


24  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

grained  Isaiah  who  preaches  with  the  red-hot  coals 
of  fire  from  the  bottomless  pit  and  scares  some  of 
the  worst  sinners  into  the  fold  literally  smoking 
from  their  narrow  escape.  It  all  comes  to  the 
same  thing.  I  never  worry  as  some  do  about 
whether  they  can  or  cannot  agree  with  what  the 
pastor  said  in  his  morning  sermon.  I  know  by 
long  experience  that  all  kind  of  preachers  are 
needed  to  win  all  the  different  kinds  of  sinners,  and 
even  then  the  sinners  seem  to  increase  faster  than 
the  saints. 

The  thing  I  am  trying  to  say  is  this — that  the 
preachers  come  and  go.  Some  of  them  have  been 
with  us  a  year,  some  four  years,  but  they  always 
left  me  here.  And  the  next  one  always  found  me 
here,  doing  the  same  things,  praying  the  same 
prayers  and  looking  for  the  same  reward.  From 
being  the  youngest  member  in  this  church  when  I 
joined  I  am  now  the  oldest.  I  have  seen  these 
people  born,  and  then  born  again.  I  know  them 
better  than  the  pastor  does,  because  I  have  known 
them  from  the  beginning.  And  I  reckon  I  know 
every  one  of  the  preachers  better  than  the  bishop 
does  who  sends  them  to  us.  For  a  bishop  only 
knows  each  one  as  he  appears  at  Conference  to 
read  his  report  which  shows  that  all  the  collections 
have  been  paid  in  full.  But  I  know  how  much 
work  there  is  behind  that  report  and  how  little  of  it 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  25 

he  did  sometimes,  because  I  know  him.  I  have 
seen  him  in  so  many  different  guises  of  the  Metho 
dist  itinerant.  If  the  average  pastor  on  a  circuit 
was  left  to  get  up  his  collections  without  the  help  of 
the  stewards  and  more  particularly  of  the  women, 
the  Conference  wouldn't  have  enough  money  to 
pay  the  bishops  or  the  other  connectional  officers, 
or  the  various  deficits  which  occur  year  after  year 
in  the  church's  worldly  business.  Here  in  our 
church  the  women  and  girls  make  a  canvass  at  the 
end  of  every  year  to  get  what  the  pastor  cannot  get, 
enough  to  be  able  to  make  a  good  showing  at  Con 
ference  by  paying  all  the  assessments.  I  have 
scrimped  and  pinched,  and  done  enough  of  this 
kind  of  mendicant  service  to  entitle  me  to  an  iron 
cross.  But  the  pastor  gets  all  the  credit.  And  he 
may  be  given  a  better  charge  the  following  year  on 
the  strength  of  it.  It  is  all  right,  and  no  more  than 
the  duty  we  swore  to  perform  when  we  joined  the 
church.  But  it  does  seem  to  me  that  some  of  us 
are  entitled  at  least  to  honourable  mention  in  these 
Conference  reports.  This  church  holds  the  lid  on 
its  women  good  and  tight,  which  doubtless  makes 
us  humble  and  diligent  in  its  service.  I  never 
knew  the  Methodist  women  to  get  the  best  of  the 
situation  but  once. 

Some  years  ago  the  General  Conference  abol 
ished  our  mission  board,  which  controlled  the  funds 


26  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

paid  only  by  the  women  for  missions.  We  felt 
about  that  much  as  a  farmer's  wife  feels  when  her 
husband  takes  the  money  she  made  off  her  own 
cotton  patch  to  pay  his  taxes.  And  the  church 
pacified  us  much  as  the  same  man  pacifies  his  out 
raged  wife  by  giving  her  a  fifty-cent  chromo  for  her 
Christmas  present.  Several  women  were  elected 
to  a  certain  board  in  the  church,  which  in  turn 
elected  the  editor  to  a  conglomerate  church  paper. 
But  three  bishops  and  four  connectional  officers 
were  on  the  same  board,  so  that  the  men  out 
numbered  the  women.  Naturally  they  had  chosen 
the  man  they  would  elect  as  editor,  and  naturally 
he  was  not  the  one  the  women  wanted. 

The  board  met.  I  never  hope  to  see  another 
such  spectacle.  The  bishops  came  in,  strutting 
like  hyperboles  of  infallible  authority.  I'm  not 
blaming  them  for  that  manner;  it  is  thrust  upon 
them  by  the  church.  I  am  just  saying  how  they 
looked.  And  the  connectional  officers  who  ac 
companied  them  were  only  politely  less  important. 
They  bowed  to  us  much  as  you  have  seen  a 
preacher  bow  to  the  front  end  of  his  congregation 
before  he  enters  the  pulpit.  Then  they  took  their 
places  round  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

The  women  occupied  a  row  of  chairs  set  back 
against  the  wall.  We  were  all  widows  and  we  wore 
our  weeds — long  black  veils  on  our  bonnets — and 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  27 

the  meek,  long-suffering  expression  of  our  sex  and 
condition.  Every  one  of  us  had  spent  years  in  the 
back-aching  service  of  the  church,  and  this  was  the 
only  reward  we  had  ever  received,  the  honour  of 
sitting  behind  the  board  to  which  we  had  been 
elected.  But  you  cannot  trust  the  pale  meekness 
of  a  church  widow.  That  mourning-dove  counte 
nance  may  conceal  the  wisdom  of  seven  serpents. 

We  had  laid  our  plans,  and  we  waited  patiently 
during  the  preliminary  business  of  the  morning 
session,  only  concerned  to  make  it  last  entirely 
through  the  morning  by  poking  our  noses  in  with 
irrelevant  questions  which  required  time  and  pa 
tience  to  answer.  The  editor  then  must  be  elected 
during  the  afternoon  session.  Now  it  came  to 
pass  that  each  of  the  bishops  had  received  an  in 
vitation  to  lunch  at  the  home  of  some  woman  prom 
inent  in  church  work,  which  invitation  he  guile 
lessly  accepted.  But  when  a  bishop  yields  his  car 
nal  mind  to  the  consideration  of  just  food,  he  can 
be  as  carnal  as  anybody,  and  he  is  literally  in  the 
toils  of  his  Delilah  hostess.  On  this  occasion  every 
Delilah  served  lunch  late,  and  then  she  served  as 
many  courses  as  her  ingenuity  could  devise  by  way 
of  detaining  her  guest. 

The  bishops  were  in  no  hurry  to  return  for  the 
afternoon  session.  They  trusted  those  Phoebe 
widows  of  the  church  and  took  for  granted  that  the 


28  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

meeting  would  not  be  called  until  their  return. 
Promptly  at  two  o'clock  we  entered  the  room,  and 
found  just  enough  of  the  other  male  members 
waiting  to  make  a  quorum.  I  was  the  last  woman 
to  cross  the  threshold,  and  I  locked  the  door  be 
hind  me. 

We  called  the  meeting  to  order,  stood  flat-footed 
on  our  parliamentary  rights,  and  nominated  our 
candidate  for  editor.  The  men  protested  in  vain 
for  an  hour's  delay.  They  fought  hard  for  the 
bishops.  They  implored  us  to  wait  and  be  guided 
by  these  great  and  good  men.  One  of  them  rushed 
frantically  round  the  room  looking  for  a  telephone. 
But  by  the  grace  of  God  there  was  no  telephone; 
therefore,  no  way  to  warn  the  absent  members  of 
what  was  going  forward.  In  spite  of  furious 
wrangling  and  scandalous  insubordination  on  the 
part  of  the  men,  we  had  elected  our  candidate 
before  three  o'clock.  When  the  bishops  came 
puffing  in  ten  minutes  past  the  hour  all  was  over. 

As  a  Christian  woman  whose  duty  is  to  protect 
the  reputation  of  saints  under  certain  grievious 
provocations,  I  refuse  to  describe  the  scene  that 
followed.  But  this  incident  is  now  a  matter  of 
history  in  the  Methodist  Church,  and  with  the  ex 
ception  of  unimportant  details  may  be  verified  by 
any  one  mean  enough  to  try  it. 

That  was  the  first  and  only  time  I  ever  officiated 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  29 

in  the  broader  affairs  of  our  denomination.  I 
really  belong  to  no  larger  sphere  than  this  church 
in  Berton — a  little  old,  fat  woman  with  a  round 
face  written  all  over  with  a  script  of  fine  wrinkles, 
with  a  noticeable  chin,  a  slightly  hooked  nose,  and 
a  mouth  which  the  years  have  pressed  inward  and 
downward  at  the  corners.  I  wear  a  coronet- 
shaped  black  bonnet  far  back  on  my  head  and  tied 
under  my  chin.  I  am  always  to  be  seen  during 
Sabbath  services  looking  up  at  the  pastor  from  my 
seat  behind  the  choir,  as  if  I  had  heard  him  say  that 
before.  Always  getting  entirely  down  upon  my 
knees  when  he  says,  "Let  us  pray."  Always  the 
one  to  rise  halfway  out  of  my  seat  to  jog  his 
memory,  if  he  forgets  to  announce  that  the  Wo 
man's  Missionary  Society  will  meet  the  following 
Thursday  afternoon  at  three  o'clock.  Always 
singing  every  hymn  whether  the  choir  wants  me  to 
sing  or  not.  The  last  one  to  come  out  of  the  church 
after  services,  taking  the  glass  vase  with  me  so  that 
I  may  remember  to  fill  it  with  flowers  for  the  next 
service.  Speaking  to  every  one,  slightly  avoided 
by  certain  members  because  they  think  I  have  said 
something  about  them,  which  would  have  been  the 
truth  if  I  had  said  it.  Always  holding  my  own  in 
spite  of  them,  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil. 
Asking  Sally  Peters  why  her  mother  is  not  at 
church  to-day.  Keeping  my  eye  upon  Mrs.  Peters, 


30  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

who  is  an  emotional  Christian.  Reminding  Mrs. 
Parks  that  she  must  be  sure  to  come  to  the  mission 
ary  meeting  on  Thursday,  and  finally  asking  the 
pastor  and  his  wife  to  go  home  with  me  for  dinner. 
I've  done  this,  been  this,  so  much  that  if  I 
should  go  to  church  some  Sunday,  sit  on  the  back 
bench,  fail  to  kneel  during  prayers,  ignore  the  col 
lection  basket,  let  the  preacher  forget  his  announce 
ments,  refuse  to  put  the  steeple  on  the  choir  singing 
with  my  high  treble,  and  leave  at  the  end  of  the 
service  without  speaking  to  a  single  soul — I  say,  if 
I,  or  any  one  of  half  a  dozen  faithful  Dorcas  women 
in  this  church,  acted  in  such  a  manner,  it  would 
tear  this  town  up  by  the  roots !  Sometimes  I  have 
been  tempted  to  do  it,  as  an  old  horse  is  tempted  to 
jump  a  fence  which  he  knows  he  cannot  jump.  I 
wish  I  could  stay  home  on  Sunday,  and  not  try  to 
remember  the  things  others  forget,  or  perform  the 
services  others  neglect.  It  is  a  thankless  job,  and 
the  only  reward  you  earn,  sometimes  even  among 
the  church  members,  is  the  name  of  being  a  busy 
body.  But  I  could  no  more  neglect  my  church 
duties  than  my  housekeeping.  I  have  two  homes: 
this  little  gray  cottage  with  its  spider-legged  ve 
randa,  opposite  the  Methodist  parsonage,  which 
also  has  a  spider-legged  veranda,  and  this  church 
across  the  street.  I  don't  know  yet,  but  I  believe 
it  will  be  easier  for  any  mortal  to  become  ac- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  31 

customed  to  the  yoke  of  duty  than  it  ever  will  be  in 
Paradise  to  balance  one's  light  and  irresponsible  in- 
corruption  upon  a  pair  of  wings.  I  accepted  the 
Christian  life  as  a  yoke,  and  it  has  become  my 
habit. 

Some  women  were  born  to  be  church  members, 
but  I  was  not.  I  doubt  if  I  ought  to  admit  such  a 
thing,  but  I  believe  religion  is  an  acquired  taste 
with  me.  I  still  long,  not  for  the  things  of  the 
world  but  for  the  world — that  wide  and  elastic 
place  where  you  change  sometimes,  where  you  say, 
even  if  it  is  prayer-meeting  night,  "I  am  going  to 
the  play  this  evening,  or  to  the  horse  show,  to  see 
something  or  hear  something  which  has  to  do  with 
life  and  joy  in  this  world,  not  the  other  one."  It 
is  wrong  to  feel  this  way,  to  weary  in  well-doing.  I 
am  not  defending  myself.  I  am  just  telling  the 
truth.  And  I've  seen  the  same  truth  in  Mrs. 
Parks'  eyes  when  she  stared  at  me  like  a  raw-boned 
angel  at  a  meeting  of  the  Woman's  Missionary 
Society,  where  we  were  the  only  members  present, 
owing  to  the  inclemency  of  the  weather. 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  famine  even  in  the 
vineyard  of  the  Lord!  For  cease  to  like,  you 
merely  exist  automatically  according  to  your 
creed  and  your  duties.  That  is  why  we  need  and 
must  have  revivals  occasionally.  They  are  the 
only  kind  of  diversions  we  get  in  the  spiritual  life, 


32  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

They  stir  up  the  community,  excite  interest  and 
curiosity,  take  the  screw  off  our  emotions,  energize 
our  spiritual  faculties,  until  we  get  down  to  the  real 
business  of  plucking  the  motes  out  of  our  neigh 
bour's  eyes  while  they  point  accusingly  at  the  beam 
in  ours. 

If  there  is  one  thing  I  believe  in  more  strongly 
than  the  Methodist  doctrines  of  salvation,  it  is  an 
old-fashioned  Methodist  revival.  The  first  service 
is  like  a  meeting  of  the  grand  jury,  the  pastor  being 
the  twelve  men  on  the  jury,  the  sheriff,  and  the 
deputies.  If  he  really  knows  the  spiritual  laws 
governing  revivals  his  first  sermon  brings  in 
dictments  against  half  the  saints  in  the  church. 
He  shows  by  the  Gospel  how  slothful  we  have  been 
all  the  year,  how  we  have  failed  in  love  and  charity. 
He  singes  our  hypocrisies,  which  do  accumulate 
upon  the  Christian  character  like  moss  upon  old 
boards,  he  calls  us  stumbling-blocks  to  sinners. 
And  at  the  end  maybe  he  lifts  his  arms  like  dole 
ful  wings,  and  cries:  "How  long,  how  long,  O  Lord, 
wilt  Thy  mercies  endure  to  this  faithless  and  per 
verse  generation!" — meaning  more  particularly 
the  stewards  and  the  Dorcases  in  this  church.  We 
know  he  is  telling  the  truth  about  us.  The  sinners 
watching  with  keen  young  eyes  on  the  back  bench 
know  it,  too.  And  the  judgment  of  a  sinner  is 
dangerous  for  a  saint.  The  only  way  you  can  out- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  33 

wit  that  is  to  confess  your  transgressions,  get  up 
then  and  there  and  go  to  the  altar  for  prayer.  I 
cannot  tell  how  often  I  have  seen  the  altar  in  this 
church  black  and  blue  with  the  kneeling  figures  of 
the  prominent  Christians  at  the  beginning  of  a  re 
vival.  I  have  been  among  them  a  hundred  times 
myself.  It  always  did  me  good  to  have  the  op 
portunity  now  and  then  to  be  absolutely  honest, 
admit  before  the  people  that  I'm  only  a  sinner, 
whose  chief  claim  upon  their  confidence  is  that 
I'm  maneuvering  in  the  right  direction. 

I  have  heard  and  read  many  criticisms  about 
revivals  and  penitents  praying  before  altars  for  the 
remission  of  sins  and  the  strength  to  live  right. 
But  I  never  have  known  a  single  man  or  woman 
who  was  willing  and  knew  how  to  be  honest  with 
his  own  soul  that  did  it.  We  move  through  this 
world  according  to  symbols,  illusions,  ideals,  every 
one  of  them  designed  to  indicate  something  in 
visible  in  reality  upon  which  no  man  can  put  his 
finger  and  say,  "That  is  it."  The  most  advanced 
scientist  who  deals  in  nothing  but  facts  must  pred 
icate  an  atom  somewhere  in  space  which  he  cannot 
prove  existed.  The  philosopher  who  founds  his 
system  of  thought  upon  materialism  cannot  tell 
why  a  man  has  something  in  him  which  thinks  and 
believes  and  remembers,  that  is  not  in  the  beast 
of  the  field.  The  Christian  who  believes  in  im- 


34  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

mortality  and  the  power  of  God  is  not,  to  my  way 
of  thinking,  more  credulous  than  the  materialist. 

The  point  is  that,  having  this  queer  something 
in  us  which  looks  backward  into  the  unknown  and 
forward  into  the  unknown,  we  must  have  faith  in 
something.  You  can  squat  upon  the  ground,  feel 
of  your  stomach,  and  believe  in  the  dirt  and 
the  elements  of  it  which  also  make  flesh.  But 
Christians  pay  themselves  the  politeness  of  a 
better  and  equally  reasonable  faith.  It  is  the  sub 
stance  of  things  hoped  for  and  literally  the  evidence 
of  things  unseen.  The  materialist  does  the  same 
thing.  He  cannot  prove  what  he  believes  either, 
beyond  a  few  primitive  experiments  he  makes  with 
the  elements  about  him — which  somebody  dis 
proves  shortly  afterward! 

Therefore,  I  say,  let  me  choose  an  Almighty  God, 
and  let  me  believe  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  sin 
and  such  a  thing  as  righteousness,  and  let  me  kneel 
at  an  altar,  which  I  admit  is  a  symbolic  idea,  and 
pray,  not  because  the  Lord  would  fail  to  do  His 
duty  by  me  if  I  didn't  pray,  but  because  prayer  is 
an  instinct  of  religious  faith,  the  same  as  snuffling 
in  the  dirt  and  squeezing  germs  is  an  instinct  with  a 
blind  rationalist.  I  do  not  deny  that  he  is  a  bene 
factor,  but  he  is  no  more  than  the  saint  who  knows 
that  religion  is  the  science  of  the  soul.  Not  as 
much,  if  you  ask  me.  For  what  shall  it  profit  a 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  35 

man  to  gain  the  whole  world,  all  the  knowledge  of 
the  things  in  it,  if  he  lose  his  own  soul?  I  haven't 
a  doubt  that  there  is  a  cemetery  beyond  the  gates 
of  Paradise,  filled  with  the  everlasting  spiritual 
decomposition  of  men  and  women  whom  the  Lord 
himself  cannot  raise  from  the  dead,  because  they 
have  destroyed  the  instinct  of  immortality. 

For  fifty  years  now  it  has  been  the  same  thing 
in  our  church  here  at  Berton.  The  North  Georgia 
Conference  meets  every  year  in  November.  We 
usually  get  our  old  pastor  back,  or  the  new  one 
comes  somewhere  round  Thanksgiving.  If  it  is 
the  old  one,  he  looks  chastened  and  says  he  is  glad 
to  be  with  us  another  year.  If  he  is  a  new  one,  he 
looks  hopeful,  and  tries  not  to  show  his  disappoint 
ment  at  having  been  sent  to  one  of  the  hardest, 
poorest  circuits  in  Georgia.  And  we  put  our  best 
foot  foremost,  with  a  fruit  cake  in  one  hand  and  a 
baked  turkey  in  the  other,  when  we  welcome  him 
and  his  family.  Also,  we  endeavoured  to  produce 
the  proper  deception  by  encouraging  him  to  believe 
we  do  not  deserve  our  reputation  in  the  Conference 
for  being  a  divided  and  difficult  church,  pursuing  a 
sort  of  evangelical  feud  with  all  the  rancour  of  out 
raged  piety. 

The  week  during  which  Conference  is  in  session 
is  one  of  suspense  and  excitement  for  Methodists 
in  this  town.  Members  who  take  little  interest  in 


36  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

the  church  all  the  year  are  wrought  up  the  same  as 
the  rest  of  us  about  whether  our  old  preacher  will 
be  returned  or  who  the  new  one  will  be.  We 
speculate  wildly,  owing,  I  suppose,  to  a  natural 
gambling  instinct  which  nothing  seems  to  destroy, 
and  to  the  fact  that  we  do  not  often  have  the  op 
portunity  to  speculate. 

Meanwhile,  the  wife  of  our  present  pastor,  wait 
ing  in  the  parsonage,  is  on  pins  and  needles  to  hear 
whether  her  husband  is  to  be  moved  to  another  ap 
pointment.  She  does  not  know  whether  to  pack 
or  not  to  pack.  But  secretly,  nine  times  out  of 
ten,  she  is  gathering  up  her  things  on  the  sly  and 
putting  them  in  her  trunks,  either  because  she  has 
a  feeling  that  "John"  will  get  a  better  appoint 
ment  another  year,  and  she  knows  he  deserves  it, 
or  because  the  president  of  the  Parsonage  Aid 
Society  has  told  her  that  she  should  not  allow  the 
children  to  climb  up  into  the  new  parlour  chairs 
and  stamp  on  the  very  frail  bottoms  of  them;  or 
she  is  tired  of  walking  a  kind  of  tightrope  stretched 
for  the  pastor's  wife  by  two  factions  either  in  the 
church  or  in  the  Women's  Missionary  Societies. 
She  is  exhausted  with  the  struggles  of  keeping  on 
friendly  terms  with  both  sides,  and  she  knows  in 
her  heart  that  she  has  not  succeeded.  She  knows 
that  she  has  been  criticised  for  not  taking  more  in 
terest  in  the  flowers  in  the  front  yard,  and  maybe 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  37 

for  not  keeping  the  back  yard  clean  where  the 
children  play,  and  for  not  planting  a  fall  garden, 
and  for  letting  the  Aid  Society  know  that  she  has 
only  one  biscuit  pan  and  no  flour  bin  at  all. 
"What's  become  of  all  the  biscuit  pans  we've 
bought  for  the  parsonage  stove  anyhow,  and  why 
don't  she  buy  a  flour  bin  if  she  wants  one?"  and 
so  forth,  and  so  on.  No  one  knows  how  the  pas 
tor's  wife  hears  these  comments,  which  are  made 
behind  her  dingy  little  back,  but  she  always  does. 
And  we  always  know  it,  because  she  is  invariably 
absent  from  the  next  meeting  of  the  Aid  Society. 
I  make  it  a  rule  to  call  on  our  preacher's  wife 
often  during  Conference  week,  partly  because  I 
know  she  is  anxious  and  lonesome;  and  partly,  I 
reckon,  because  I  am  just  a  woman,  and  crave  to 
know  what  this  other  woman  is  doing  under  the 
circumstances.  If  the  children  meet  me  at  the 
door  looking  guilty ;  if,  when  I  go  into  the  parlour,  I 
miss  the  few  little  things  like  photographs  and 
maybe  a  vase  which  belong  to  her,  not  the  parson 
age,  I  know  what  she  is  doing — she  is  getting  her 
things  together,  so  she  will  be  able  to  slam  them 
into  the  boxes  and  trunks  and  be  ready  to  move 
almost  by  the  time  "John"  gets  back  from  the 
Conference.  For  in  the  Methodist  itineracy 
changes  must  be  made  as  speedily  as  when  the 
people  cry,  "The  king  is  dead!  Long  live  the 


38  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

king!"  One  preacher  hardly  gets  out  of  the  par 
sonage  door  before  the  next  preacher  is  on  his  way 
from  the  depot  with  his  family  and  baggage. 

But  when  our  pastor's  wife  comes  in  to  greet  me, 
there  is  not  on  her  face  a  trace  of  being  ready  to 
meet  this  emergency.  She  looks  pale,  tired,  a 
trifle  preoccupied.  No,  she  was  not  doing  any 
thing  much — just  straightening  up  things  some 
where  in  the  house.  No,  she  has  not  heard  from 
John  since  he  left.  Oh,  no  indeed,  they  do  not  ex 
pect  to  be  moved.  She  and  John  like  Berton  so 
much  and  everybody  has  been  so  kind!  All  this 
time  I  can  see  her  eyes  glancing  this  way  and  that 
about  the  room  to  make  sure  she  has  not  forgotten 
anything  that  is  just  her  own.  And  her  hands  are 
trembling,  maybe  with  nervousness  from  having 
worked  so  hard  at  this  surreptitious  packing. 

Saint  Paul  had  nothing  on  a  Methodist  preach 
er's  wife  when  he  said  he  had  "no  continuing  city." 
They  are  the  reservists  behind  the  fighting  line  of 
the  ministry,  always  ready  to  get  up  and  march  to 
the  next  trench,  or  maybe  to  retreat  into  one  out  of 
which  they  advanced  years  ago  when  John  was 
young  and  strong  and  a  power  in  the  church. 
The  winking,  leering  world  may  say  what  it  pleases 
about  politics  in  the  church,  I'll  not  deny  that. 
But  nothing  except  the  grace  of  God  and  the  love 
of  man  can  hold  a  preacher  to  the  cheerful,  patient 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  39 

performance  of  his  duties  who  was  once  the  pre 
siding  elder  of  a  big  district,  and  who  returns  in  his 
tired  old  age  to  the  little  one-horse  circuit  where  he 
started,  still  valiant,  still  concerned  for  the  souls  of 
the  next  generation.  And  only  supernatural  love 
for  her  husband  as  well  as  for  the  church  keeps  the 
worn-out  wife  of  such  a  preacher  from  complain 
ing,  from  telling  how  much  better  off  they  used  to 
be  when  he  was  pastor  of  such  and  such  a  rich 
church  in  the  city,  and  the  congregation  gave  them 
a  trip  to  the  Holy  Land.  But  never  yet  have  I 
heard  one  of  them  do  such  a  thing.  She  may  look 
at  you  sometimes  dimly,  as  if  you  were  not  there, 
as  if  for  the  moment  she  recalled  a  very  bright 
place  in  the  past,  some  occasion  when  her  husband 
shone  as  he  deserved  to  shine,  but  never  herself. 
No  one  ever  heard  of  a  Methodist  preacher's  wife 
shining  except  in  his  reflected  glory. 

Much  is  said  these  days  about  what  is  the  best 
kind  of  woman,  whether  it  is  the  old-fashioned 
lady  or  the  new-fashioned  suffragist.  If  no  can 
didate  for  near-perfection  has  been  elected  yet, 
some  one  should  nominate  the  Methodist  preacher's 
wife,  who  has  been  all  round  and  up  and  down 
the  world  with  him  until  they  drift  back  in  their 
old  age  to  the  backwoods  circuit  where  they 
started — still  poor,  still  patient,  still  loving  and 
cheerful,  full  of  faith,  doddering  along  to  their 


40  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

graves  with  their  wings  folded  somewhere  in 
side. 

This  church  at  Berton  has  been  the  place  where 
more  preachers  started  in  the  ministry,  and  from 
which  more  were  superannuated,  than  almost  any 
other  in  the  Conference.  We  have  done  our  best 
to  welcome  both  kinds,  and  I  reckon  we  have  done 
a  good  deal  toward  trying  their  faith.  Some  of  us 
dread  the  fledgling  preacher.  We  have  had  a  lot 
of  adolescent  theologues  here  to  break  into  the 
ministry  of  God.  And  we  have  done  it,  but  it  has 
not  been  any  too  easy  for  them  or  for  us. 

A  young  preacher  is  almost  violently  sincere. 
He  is  energetic,  always  vis  ts  his  people,  which  an 
older  one  often  neglects.  He  usually  studies  hard, 
has  no  old  sermons,  does  the  best  he  can,  but  he 
just  naturally  doesn't  know  how.  He  knows  his 
heavenly  Father  and  where  He  is  to  be  found,  but 
I  have  yet  to  see  one  who  knew  his  fellow  men  or 
where  to  find  him  when  he  got  ready  to  fit  the 
Gospel  on  him.  His  sermon,  however  orthodox 
and  thoughtful,  is  apt  to  be  a  sort  of  blank  cartridge 
fired  with  explosive  eloquence  over  the  heads  of 
the  people.  And  he  is  nearly  always  the  spiritual 
tintype  of  some  other  great  preacher  in  the  church 
under  whose  influence  he  has  fallen.  It  takes  him 
about  two  years  to  get  indignantly  down  to  com 
mon  men  and  their  common  needs.  And  we  usu- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  41 

ally  have  him  these  two  years.  But  when  he 
leaves  us  he  is  a  wiser,  chastened  man,  better 
fitted  for  the  ministry,  although  he  may  not  be  so 
promising  as  a  preacher.  You  must  take  some  of 
the  promise  out  of  a  man  before  he  can  become  just 
a  good  pastor  and  a  thoroughly  consecrated  min 
ister  who  knows  how  to  preach  the  Gospel  without 
wisdom  of  words. 

I  could  write  volumes  about  the  young  preachers 
we  have  had  and  not  tell  half  I  know.  Chris 
tianity  is  a  rarefied  atmosphere  in  which  the 
sturdiest  saint  cannot  always  balance  himself 
properly.  But  if  you  want  to  see  a  zigzag  course 
in  it,  pay  particular  attention  to  a  young  Metho 
dist  itinerant  on  his  first  circuit,  with  his  first  wife 
and  his  first  baby,  and  not  a  single  sermon  prepared 
with  which  to  start  his  ministry.  The  wife  always 
overestimates  her  husband's  ability,  which  is  her 
bounden  duty.  The  baby  is  always  taken  vio 
lently  ill  cutting  his  stomach  and  eye  teeth  during 
the  summer  revival  season,  while  the  father  is  off 
conducting  a  protracted  meeting  at  a  country 
church.  He  cannot  leave  a  congregation  of  half- 
warmed  souls  just  as  they  are  beginning  to  repent 
and  believe,  to  return  home  and  help  nurse  the 
child.  The  only  baby  William  and  I  ever  had 
died,  but  I  have  helped  pull  many  a  preacher's 
baby  through  its  second  summer,  while  he  was 


44  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

with  him,  that's  what  he  can  do.  I'll  never  ask 
him  to  my  house  again!"  she  said,  getting  up  and 
waddling  out  to  her  buggy. 

Late  that  afternoon  when  I  saw  Brother  Smal- 
raven  sitting  on  the  parsonage  porch,  I  beckoned 
him  to  come  over.  And  I  had  it  out  with  him. 

"I  am  right  about  this  thing,  Sister  Thompson, 
and  I  must  hold  to  what  I  believe  is  right,"  he  said. 

"What  are  you  here  for?"  I  answered.  "To 
teach  these  women  how  to  go  against  their  feelings 
and  principles  and  pride,  or  to  help  and  encourage 
them  where  you  can  in  the  Christian  life?  If  you 
don't  eat  what  they  cook,  they  won't  take  your 
Gospel." 

"It  hurts  my  conscience  to  eat  hot  food  on 
Sunday,"  he  said,  holding  back. 

"Well,  if  you  are  as  self-sacrificing  as  you  ought 
to  be,  you'd  rather  hurt  your  raw-boned  con 
science  than  the  tender  table  feelings  of  good 
Christian  women!"  I  said,  knowing  well  I  had  the 
better  of  the  argument. 

And  not  being  an  incurable  bigot,  he  knew  it, 
too.  After  that  he  took  what  was  put  before  him 
and  asked  no  questions.  Now  he  is  a  power  in  the 
church  and  one  of  the  heartiest  eaters  in  the  North 
Georgia  Conference — which  is  a  good  deal  to  say, 
for  I  have  seen  old  preachers  and  presiding  elders 
so  fond  of  chicken  that  I've  wondered  if  their 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  45 

taste  might  not  come  out  on  them  in  the  next 
world  with  Rhode  Island  Red  wings. 

Sometimes  a  young  preacher  will  go  to  the  other 
extreme  and  show  the  most  artlessly  immoral  sense 
of  morals.  He  will  live  as  nicely  as  a  girl,  pay  his 
debts,  bear  and  forbear  like  a  saint,  and  still  lack 
common  honesty. 

Years  ago  a  young  preacher  named  Beltem  was 
sent  to  us.  He  was  a  tall,  handsome  man,  with  a 
joyous  eye  and  what  you  might  call  a  popular 
presence.  He  was  so  well  liked  in  the  town  that  on 
Sundays  there  were  as  many  Baptists  and  Presby 
terians  as  Methodists  in  the  congregation  They 
boasted  that  his  doctrines  suited  them.  We  were 
pleased,  of  course,  to  have  the  church  filled  at  every 
service  and  to  know  we  had  a  pastor  who  was  so 
much  admired.  But  every  time  he  preached  it 
made  just  the  Methodists  feel  queer.  I  have  had 
cold  chills  run  down  my  back  as  he  took  a  flight  off 
the  face  of  the  earth,  accompanied  by  the  rumbling 
thunder  of  thoughts  that  would  have  done  credit  to 
any  one  of  the  prophets.  There  was  something 
awful  and  unnatural  in  the  ability  of  a  young  man 
to  preach  like  that. 

People  talked  a  good  deal.  The  Presbyterians 
said  openly  that  Beltem  had  too  broad  a  concep 
tion  of  the  Gospel  to  stay  in  the  Methodist  Church. 
The  Baptists  said  he  was  a  strictly  doctrinal 


46  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

preacher,  and  they  wondered  how  such  a  man  ever 
came  to  get  himself  called  in  any  church  but  their 
own.  The  Methodists  had  very  little  to  say  at 
all.  But  we  all  had  our  noses  to  the  ground  and 
our  eyes  on  Beltem. 

One  day  Sister  Parks  and  I  were  sitting  in  the 
church,  waiting  for  the  other  members  of  the 
Woman's  Missionary  Society. 

"Brother  Beltem  is  a  fine  preacher,"  she  said, 
apropos  of  nothing. 

"He  preaches  the  best  sermons  I  ever  heard,"  I 
answered  carefully. 

She  flirted  her  eye  at  me,  and  we  sat  there  looking 
at  each  other,  measuring  one  another's  indiscretion 
in  the  matter  of  free  speech.  But  we  both  had  too 
much  experience  to  trust  one  another  with  the  sus 
picion  we  had  in  our  minds. 

William  preached  every  third  Sunday  for  the 
pastor  at  Rosewell,  who  was  ill,  which  was  the 
same  Sunday  Beltem's  appointment  fell  in  Berton. 
So  it  was  some  time  in  March  before  William  heard 
one  of  these  grand  sermons.  I  will  never  forget 
that  Sabbath  day.  Beltem  took  a  Beatitude  for 
his  text,  made  crowns  and  wings  out  of  it  for  the 
whole  congregation.  His  manner  was  quiet,  al 
most  conversational,  but  he  could  not  have  im 
proved  his  language  if  he  had  chosen  his  words  out 
of  a  Paradise  lexicon.  His  thoughts  were  so 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  47 

majestic  you  could  see  the  cherubim  marching 
with  flaming  swords  beside  them.  At  first  William 
sat  like  one  dumfounded,  then  he  began  to  fidget. 
At  last,  when  Beltem  got  so  het  up  he  was  fairly 
chanting  his  discourse,  William's  face  turned  red. 
I  thought  he  was  about  to  do  something.  Fortu 
nately  Beltem  closed  his  sermon  just  in  time. 

The  moment  we  were  back  home  William  went 
to  his  bookcase  and  pulled  out  a  volume  of  Phillips 
Brooks'  sermons.  There  it  was  in  plain  print, 
every  word  of  Beltem's  discourse. 

"But,  William,"  I  said,  "he  never  was  an 
Episcopalian  until  this  morning.  He's  been  a 
Baptist  and  a  Presbyterian,  everything  but  a 
Methodist!  Where'd  he  get  the  other  sermons?" 

WTe  found  them  all,  some  in  Moody 's  book  of 
sermons,  two  or  three  in  Talmage's.  Our  people 
were  no  great  readers  in  those  days.  Even  if  they 
had  been,  I  doubt  if  they  would  have  chosen  pulpit 
literature.  So  no  one  recognized  the  canned  gospel 
we  had  been  getting. 

William  went  to  call  on  Brother  Beltem  that 
evening.  He  did  not  return  until  near  midnight. 

"We'll  have  our  own  pastor  for  better  or  for 
worse  after  this,"  he  said  as  he  put  out  the  light. 

And  we  did.  The  next  third  Sunday  Parker 
Beltem  preached  a  poor  little,  runty  sermon.  But 
it  was  his  own.  And  William  shouted  "Amen!" 


48  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

every  chance  he  got,  which  encouraged  the  boy. 
As  the  year  passed  he  improved  until  he  did  very 
well.  But  he  has  never  risen  in  the  Conference, 
still  serving  small  churches  according  to  his  ability. 
I  have  always  had  a  great  respect  for  hini. 

These  are  only  two  of  the  twenty-nine  pastors 
we  had  during  these  last  thirty-five  years.  I 
served  under  them  all  until  I  became  a  sort  of 
setting  hen  in  the  church.  The  preachers  whooped 
and  exhorted.  The  people  sang  "O  Lord,  revive 
us!"  But  nothing  happened.  We  had  passed 
into  a  kind  of  spiritual  dotage.  When  the  devil 
forsook  us,  as  if  he  were  tired  of  tempting  us  into 
the  same  old  transgressions,  we  settled  down  in 
our  piety  and  feuds,  and  I  never  expected  any 
change  in  these  conditions.  The  fact  that  they 
were  changed  suddenly  and  completely  inspired 
me  to  tell  the  tale  I  am  about  to  write.  What  I 
have  written  is  merely  the  background  against 
which  the  events  show.  If  any  reader  takes  offense 
let  him  prefer  charges  against  the  pastor  who 
finally  shook  up  the  dry  bones  of  the  Methodist 
saints  in  Berton.  This  narrative  is  not  a  book 
of  scriptures,  but  the  biography  of  a  preacher  and 
his  people. 

THE   FAMILY    HISTORY   OF   A   CHURCH 


CHAPTER  II 

IF  THE  widow  called  Dorcas,  and  known  as  a 
"disciple"  in  the  Church  at  Joppa,  could 
have  written  one  chapter  of  the  Acts  of  the 
Apostles  we  should  know  more  about  church  work 
among  the  laity  of  that  period.  If  Phebe  had 
written  her  experiences  in  the  Church  at  Cenchrea 
we  should  know  more  than  we  do  about  Saint  Paul. 
She  would  have  made  it  her  business  to  find  out 
what  that  "thorn  in  the  flesh"  was  which  has 
puzzled  so  many  commentators;  and  she  would 
have  told  us.  As  the  women  in  this  church  discuss 
our  presiding  elder,  she  would  have  written  about 
Paul — how  he  looked;  his  favourite  psalms;  what 
the  congregation  thought  of  his  sermon.  But  she 
never  could  have  remembered  what  he  said.  This 
may  explain  why  there  is  no  Book  of  Dorcas,  no 
Gospel  According  to  Phebe — even  in  the  Apocry 
pha.  Being  women,  they  would  have  told  too 
much  not  essential  to  salvation  but  most  aw 
fully  faithful  to  just  the  personal  lives  of  the 
Apostles. 

And  I  reckon  this  is  the  reason  even  to  this  day 
there  are  no  church  histories  written  by  women. 

49 


50  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

They  know  how  too  well.  We  should  get  the 
truth;  all  the  thumb  marks  of  human  imperfections 
on  the  brethren's  perfections.  If  Susannah  Wesley 
had  written  the  early  history  of  Methodism  she 
might  have  omitted  John  Wesley's  rules,  which  are 
now  the  vows  we  take  when  we  join  the  church;  and 
she  never  would  have  thought  of  putting  in  his 
sermons,  which  all  young  itinerants  must  memorize 
before  they  are  received  into  "full  connections." 
But  she  would  have  told  the  troubles  her  son  John 
had  with  his  wife ;  how  difficult  he  found  it  to  curb 
the  ardour  of  his  field  preachers;  what  an  awful 
time  her  son  Charles  had  when  composing  his 
hymns;  how  hard  they  both  worked;  what  priva 
tions  they  endured — and  so  forth  and  so  on.  It 
would  not  have  been  a  history  of  Methodism  at  all, 
but  a  tender  biography  of  her  sons. 

I  am  not  complaining,  you  understand.  But  I 
say  it  is  queer,  when  you  consider  how  much  more 
active  women  are  and  always  have  been  in  the 
service  of  the  Christian  religion,  that  they  never 
do  get  the  chance  to  tell  what  they  know  about 
the  church  and  the  brethren — which  is  a  sight 
more  than  any  one  suspects — except  the  Al 
mighty. 

If  the  women  in  this  church  at  Berton  could 
compare  notes  with  Dorcas  of  Joppa,  and  Martin 
Luther's  wife,  and  Susannah  Wesley,  we  should 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  51 

find  a  remarkable  similarity  in  our  experiences. 
Conditions,  customs,  and  creeds  vary  from  age 
to  age;  but  there  are  two  ever-conflicting  forces 
that  do  not  change  at  all — the  nature  of  human 
nature,  and  the  spirit  of  Christianity. 

We  have  served  our  time  in  this  church  with 
passionate,  headstrong  preachers  just  as  devoted 
to  the  ministry  of  Christ,  according  to  their  ability, 
as  Paul  was,  and  about  as  hard  to  get  on  with 
as  John  and  Barnabas  found  him  to  be  when  they 
went  off  with  him  on  a  missionary  journey.  We 
have  had  young  ones  like  Timothy — gentle,  pa 
tient,  not  so  effective;  delicate  enough  to  take 
a  little  blackberry  cordial  for  their  stomach's 
sake  during  the  summer  season  of  bowel  com 
plaints.  We  have  had  just  as  good  saints  here 
as  anybody's  saints.  We  get  the  same  kind  of 
jades,  too,  occasionally,  who  inspired  Paul  to 
order  the  women  at  Corinth  to  cover  their  heads — 
meaning  really  their  scandalous  faces,  I  believe — 
and  keep  silent  in  the  church.  But,  with  us,  she 
always  gets  in  the  choir,  where  her  head  covering 
shows  to  a  better  advantage  than  the  dingy 
bonnets  of  good  women,  and  where  she  makes  the 
music  and  the  worst  troubles  we  have. 

Within  the  church  we  also  have  our  humble 
publican,  seated  far  back,  who  wears  on  his 
sorrowful  face  the  Lord-be-merciful-to-me-a-sinner 


5£  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

expression,  which  endears  him  to  us  more  than  the 
virtues  of  some  of  our  hardened  saints. 

I  am  about  to  write  a  little  history  of  our  church 
at  Berton.  It  will  be  a  family  history,  because 
I  am  a  woman  and  can  rarely  remember  more 
than  the  text  of  last  Sunday's  sermon. 

If  any  one  wishes  to  know  why  I  am  doing  this 
let  him  look  inside  his  own  church;  not  as  a 
stranger,  who  sees  rows  of  men  and  women  seated 
in  a  kind  of  Christian  relaxation,  taking  a  Sabbath 
rest  from  secular  life,  but  as  every  one  of  us  knows 
each  other — in  the  simplicity  of  faith  and  in  the 
hard  struggle  to  do  right  according  to  our  per 
versities. 

That  is  one  reason.  Here  is  another:  Public 
opinion  is  a  Grand  Jury  that  brings  an  indict 
ment  every  hundred  years  or  so  against  whatever 
is  wrong,  whether  it  is  our  Government,  social 
institutions,  or  the  Christian  Church.  All  revolu 
tions  and  reforms  are  preceded  by  these  indict 
ments.  And  they  are  brought  as  often  against 
the  malpractice  of  religion  as  against  any  other 
evil. 

Loyola  voiced  such  a  verdict  when  he  formed 
the  Society  of  Jesus,  which  was  a  pure  and  devoted 
brotherhood.  But  it  produced  the  Jesuits  of  the 
Inquisition.  Martin  Luther  did  the  same  thing 
in  a  different  way.  And  the  Protestants  started 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  53 

clean.  When  the  Church  of  England  returned 
to  the  pomp  and  circumstances  of  a  too  formal 
and  worldly  bred  piety,  John  Wesley  organized 
the  society  called  Methodists.  This  church  has 
prospered  so  much  that  it  begins  now  to  prosper 
too  much.  Presently  the  Grand  Jury  will  sit 
again.  There  is  something  wrong;  I  do  not  know 
what  it  is.  Sometimes  I  think  we  deceive  our 
selves  and  practise  for  the  benefit  of  the  church 
the  same  covetousness  and  greed  that  we  con 
demn  in  the  people  of  the  world.  We  gratify 
the  same  instinct  for  wealth  and  cover  the  sin  of 
it  with  the  name  of  the  Christian  Church. 

Anyhow,  a  queer  true  bill  was  returned  against 
our  Methodist  Church  here  recently,  with  amaz 
ing  consequences.  Therefore,  as  one  writes  an 
epitaph  to  the  memory  of  a  good  man,  so  do  I 
now  set  down  the  story  of  this  little  meeting  house 
and  the  people  who  made  it  and  loved  it,  knowing 
that  presently  the  new  order  must  begin  and 
former  things  must  pass,  put  away  as  we  fold  the 
garments  of  the  dead. 

The  Methodist  Church  in  Berton  is  a  little  old 
gray  house,  with  a  long-necked  belfry.  The  eaves 
come  very  low.  The  doors  on  week  days  are 
like  sorrowful  eyes  closed  in  prayer  for  the  mem 
bers  who  may  be  doing  what  they  ought  not  to 


54  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

do.  On  Sundays  they  are  wide  open;  like  the 
heart  of  a  good  man.  The  bell  in  the  belfry  is 
not  too  loud;  one  of  those  singing  Sabbath  bells 
heard  only  in  village  churches.  In  summer 
weather  the  shadows  of  many  leaves  fall  upon 
the  roof  from  two  great  oaks,  like  phantom 
wreaths  of  shade  and  sun.  In  winter  winds 
their  naked  boughs  lock  arms  above  it  as  if  they 
held  it,  like  the  love  of  God,  in  a  firm  embrace. 

The  inside  is  filled  with  a  brown  gloom  from 
the  unpainted  walls  and  pews,  which  have  dark 
ened  to  a  deeper,  richer  tone,  very  soft  and  kind. 

On  the  first  Sabbath  in  every  month  the  com 
munion  table  stands  within  the  altar,  a  white 
cloth  spread  over  the  bread  and  the  wine,  and  the 
two  goblets.  We  still  take  the  sacrament  here 
from  a  common  chalice,  decently  trusting  the 
Lord  to  save  us  from  each  other's  contagion.  If 
there  is  anything  else  in  this  world  so  much  like 
the  memory  of  "His  loving  kindness,  oh,  how 
great,"  as  an  old  church  like  this,  with  the  people 
kneeling,  saint  and  sinner  side  by  side,  about  this 
altar  on  such  a  day,  neither  doubting  nor  judging 
one  another  for  the  moment,  I  have  never  seen  it. 

But,  however  we  may  dignify  an  altar,  Nature 
or  accident  comes  in  and  humanizes  it.  Directly 
after  the  war  nails  were  scarce  and  the  pulpit  was 
made  of  boards  pegged  together. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  55 

One  of  the  pegs  fell  out,  doubtless  jarred  from 
its  hole  by  Brother  Myrick,  who  was  a  powerful 
preacher,  with  a  prophet's  beard  and  a  Sinai 
countenance.  He  often  pounded  the  Bible  during 
his  discourse  to  make  it  go  down  better  with  his 
congregation. 

On  a  Sabbath  late  in  October  he  was  preaching 
from  the  text:  "Search  the  scriptures;  for  in  them 
ye  think  ye  have  eternal  life."  The  brethren 
listened  drowsily;  the  elder  women  dozed,  mulled 
in  the  wine  of  the  word.  Brother  Myrick  lifted 
his  voice,  endeavouring  to  hold  their  attention. 
"S-e-a-r-c-h  the  Scriptures,  my  brethren!"  he 
shouted,  waving  his  right  arm  in  a  fine  gesture 
and  bringing  his  fist  down  with  a  bang  upon  the 
open  book. 

Instantly  everybody  sat  up;  every  neck  craned; 
every  head  turned  sidewise,  one  ear  toward  the 
pulpit;  eyes  rolled  at  the  preacher,  who  had  drawn 
back  and  flattened  himself  in  petrified  amazement 
against  the  wall  behind  him.  A  sound  like 
closeted  thunder  issued  from  beneath  the  Bible. 
It  filled  the  house — a  sibilant,  angry  sound,  as 
if  the  prophets  had  risen  in  wrath  from  First  and 
Second  Kings. 

We  never  admit  it;  but,  whether  civilized  or 
savage,  we  are  always  expecting  the  miraculous. 
And  nobody  really  likes  it.  The  angels  only 


56  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

know  what  fires  of  unwilling  faith  and  terrified 
superstitions  were  kindled  in  the  minds  of  that 
congregation  as  the  noise  increased. 

Suddenly,  while  we  expected  the  very  heavens 
to  fall,  Brother  My  rick  clapped  his  hands  to  his 
head,  leaped  into  the  air,  and  cleared  the  pulpit  at 
a  bound.  He  was  pursued  by  a  swarm  of  bumble 
bees,  which  encompassed  him  about  like  a  cloud 
of  witnesses.  They  continued  to  boil  in  a  furious, 
smoking  mass  of  wings  and  stings  from  that  peg- 
hole  beneath  the  book  board,  where  they  had 
made  their  winter  quarters. 

We  did  not  wait  for  the  benediction. 

Those  first  years  when  we  had  the  pegged-board 
pulpit  seem  the  best  to  me,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  we  made  it  harder  for  one  another  than  we 
do  now. 

I  can  remember  when  women  did  not  wear  their 
gold  breastpins  to  divine  services.  I  was  a  little 
saucer-faced  girl,  just  beginning  to  study  the 
catechism  and  learn  how  to  gossip  like  a  little 
squab  Pharisee,  when  we  had  a  scandal  about 
the  preacher  s  wife's  bonnet.  She  was  a  bride 
and  still  wore  her  wedding  clothes  when  she  ap 
peared  in  the  church  that  first  Sunday.  Her 
hat  was  a  bewitching  little  cocked-up  thing,  put 
on  her  head  sidewise  for  the  glory  of  love  rather 
than  the  glory  of  God.  Sitting  close  to  my  mother, 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  57 

I  divided  my  attention  during  the  sermon  be 
tween  the  vision  of  this  beautiful  hat  and  Mrs. 
Withers,  who  was  also  studying  it  with  malevolent 
intensity. 

Immediately  after  the  services  Mrs.  Withers 
led  the  young  wife  aside.  I  followed  at  a  little 
girl's  convenient  eavesdropping  distance. 

"That  must  come  off!"  said  the  old  lady  sternly, 
pointing  at  the  flagrant  bow  raised  like  an  iri 
descent  hallelujah  on  the  side  of  the  hat.  "Such 
vanities  are  strictly  forbidden  by  the  rules  of  our 
church!" 

There  was  a  flash  of  resentment  in  the  bride's 
eye,  a  gesture  of  quick  defiance.  Then  her  coun 
tenance  fell.  Along  with  so  many  preachers' 
wives,  she  passed  under  the  yoke  of  "Sisteren"  tyr 
annies  for  her  husband's  sake. 

"Very  well,"  she  answered  faintly,  her  eyes 
swimming  in  tears,  her  lips  pressed  tight  to  keep 
back  what  she  must  not  say. 

My  sympathies  were  all  with  her  as  she  went 
meekly  out  of  the  church.  At  the  same  time  I 
did  not  doubt  that  Mrs.  Withers  was  right.  It  is 
only  within  the  last  few  years  that  the  rules  hi 
our  Discipline  have  been  modified  enough  to 
permit  a  woman  to  wear  such  a  thing  without 
perjuring  herself. 

But  even  then  the  leaven  of  liberty  was  working 


58  A  Circuit  Rider9 s  Widow 

in  the  vain  and  tender  hearts  of  women.  The 
next  day  my  mother  and  two  other  sisters  called 
upon  the  bride.  They  asked  her  for  her  bonnet. 
She  yielded  it,  still  terrified.  It  looked  like  a 
picked  bird,  for  she  had  already  removed  the  bow. 
In  the  evening  they  returned  it  to  her,  covered 
with  the  prettiest  flowers  in  their  bandboxes; 
and  mother  kissed  her  and  told  her  not  to  worry 
about  the  dragon  of  righteousness  in  Sister  With 
ers,  who  was  really  a  good  woman  in  her  hard- 
fisted  way. 

This  happened  in  the  days  when  two  or  three 
brethren,  who  were  spiritually  minded,  occasion 
ally  waited  upon  another  brother  whom  they  had 
managed  to  overtake  in  a  fault  and  reproved  him. 
Free  will  was  a  doctrine  that  gave  us  the  old  ad 
vantage  over  the  Baptists,  who  believed  in  election, 
and  the  Presbyterians,  who  believed  in  predes 
tination.  We  dared  not  practise  it  on  one  another. 

Nevertheless,  we  had  more  accessions  to  the 
church  "by  profession  of  faith"  than  we  do  now. 
More  penitents  came  to  the  altar  for  prayers,  re 
pented,  believed,  and  were  saved  from  everything 
but  their  other  sins. 

I  say  "other  sins"  because  conversion  only  re 
deems  a  man  from  the  transgressions  he  has  already 
committed.  It  does  not  insure  him  against  the 
other  kind,  which  he  is  certain  to  develop,  en- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  59 

couraged  by  his  own  righteousness.  For  every 
virtue  you  acquire,  there  are  two  or  three  attendant 
shortcomings.  The  effort  to  live  as  a  citizen  of 
heaven  here  is  like  straddling  the  grave  and  trying 
to  exist  in  two  worlds  at  once,  without  naturaliza 
tion  papers  in  either.  It  cannot  be  done — not  all 
the  time.  So  long  as  we  are  in  the  flesh,  the  scenes 
of  the  soul  are  laid  there,  with  enough  to  keep 
everybody  busy. 

When  we  put  both  feet  in  the  grave,  and  pass 
through  it,  they  are  laid  beyond.  I  have  yet  to  see 
the  man  or  woman,  lacking  in  this  practical  wis 
dom,  who  does  not  become  a  Pharisee  or  something 
not  quite  equal  to  a  square  deal  in  just  the  truth. 
We  are  obliged  to  judge  one  another,  even  if  we  are 
commanded  to  "Judge  not.'  Dove-and-serpent 
wisdom  consists  in  remembering  that  "with  what 
judgment  ye  judge  ...  it  shall  be  measured 
to  you  again  ";  and  go  ahead  with  your  judgments, 
prepared  to  take  and  profit  by  the  consequences. 
And  it's  all  very  well  to  live  in  love  and  charity 
with  your  neighbour;  but  if  she  permits  her  chick 
ens  to  scratch  up  your  garden  and  sicks  her  dog  on 
your  cat,  you  cannot.  The  thing  to  do  is  to  kill 
her  chickens  and  your  cat,  and  clear  the  decks  so 
that  you  can.  My  idea  is  to  do  my  best,  no 
matter  how  bad  it  is,  and  never  to  bear  malice. 
This  is  the  spirit  of  the  law.  No  one  can  live  up 


60  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

to  the  letter  of  it  without  damaging  his  soul  or  the 
other  fellow's  with  too  much  meekness,  which  is 
incipient  hypocrisy.  I  am  always  in  a  position 
to  thank  my  Heavenly  Father  that  I  have  good 
reasons  for  knowing  I  am  no  better  than  my 
neighbours. 

What  I  am  trying  to  say  is  that  when  you  settle 
down  in  the  Christian  life;  when  the  years  take 
hold  of  your  knees  so  that  it  is  hard  to  rise  from 
your  prayers;  when  you  are  old  and  sad,  and  wise 
enough  to  know  your  own  ever-besetting  sins  as 
others  have  known  them  all  along — you  cease  to 
expect  perfection  in  yourself  or  in  others.  You 
realize,  with  comfortable  Christian  fortitude,  that, 
after  all,  perfection  in  this  changing  world  is  bound 
to  be  imperfection  to-morrow. 

This  reminds  me  that  some  years  ago  the  Holi 
ness  people  got  into  our  church  and  nearly  ruined 
it  before  we  could  live  them  down.  I  had  my 
share  in  that  by  convicting  Mary  Fisher. 

She  lived  next  door  to  me  then.  And  her 
chickens  lived  in  my  garden.  I  admit  that  I  had 
a  wayward  cat,  which  she  claimed  committed 
depredation  in  her  kitchen.  We  were  both  in  an 
unchristian  frame  of  mind  when  the  revival  came 
on.  We  had  a  travelling  evangelist  that  year  to 
help  with  the  meeting,  not  suspecting  until  he  was 
in  full  swing  that  he  preached  "sanctification." 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  61 

When  things  warmed  up,  half  the  church  mem 
bers  began  seeking  this  deeper  work  of  grace. 
It  was  like  Mary  to  get  it  first.  She  was  a  nice 
little  woman,  with  a  thin  body  and  economical 
features.  And  she  had  a  soul  like  a  sparrow, 
which  was  always  falling  to  the  ground  in  order  to 
make  sure  that  the  Lord  numbered  the  very  hairs 
of  her  head.  She  claimed  the  "second  blessing" 
with  hallelujahs  of  rejoicing;  said  the  very  roots 
of  evil  had  been  taken  out  of  her. 

I  sat  in  my  pew  behind  the  choir  and  watched 
her  work  over  Taggy  Lipton,  who  wanted  sanctifi- 
cation  but  was  too  honest  to  claim  it. 

After  the  meeting  was  over  and  we  had  settled 
down  in  our  strictly  human  natures  once  more,  I 
revolved  a  certain  thing  in  my  mind.  I  went  to 
see  Sister  Massengale,  whose  only  wrorldly  amuse 
ment  is  to  raise  game  chickens  for  her  own  table. 
I  loaned  her  my  cat  and  borrowed  the  fiercest- 
looking  rooster  she  had. 

The  next  morning  I  was  awakened  at  daylight 
by  the  most  awful  racket  in  the  garden.  I  ran  to 
the  window.  There  were  four  or  five  hens  sitting 
on  the  fence,  with  their  wings  down,  cackling  as  if 
they'd  die  if  something  didn't  stop.  Mary  was 
there,  too,  not  more  than  half  dressed,  with  the 
hairpins  she  rolls  her  bangs  in  every  night  sticking 
up  like  porcupine  quills.  She  was  jumping  up  and 


62  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

down,  smacking  her  hands  and  screeching  loud 
enough  to  bring  the  town  marshal. 

In  the  middle  of  the  garden  her  old  Plymouth 
Rock  rooster  faced  the  game  as  a  fat  clown  would 
face  a  slim  young  knight-errant.  They  were  not 
saying  anything,  those  roosters;  but  the  Middle 
Ages  never  saw  a  duel  with  swords  conducted  in  a 
manner  more  ceremonious  or  with  deadlier  instinct. 
Their  neck  feathers  were  reached  up  like  Eliza 
bethan  ruffs.  Every  time  Mary's  rooster  dropped 
his  wing  to  kick  it  with  his  claw,  the  game  would 
flirt  out  his  long  leg  and  spur  him  somewhere. 
Once  or  twice  they  clinched,  did  their  worst  to  each 
other's  heads,  drew  off,  took  aim,  and  started 
again. 

It  did  not  last  long.  Before  I  had  time  to  realize 
that  I  was  promoting  cockfighting  across  the  street 
from  the  parsonage  and  church,  the  Plymouth 
Rock  dropped  beneath  a  well-aimed  thrust.  The 
game  made  a  low  cock-a-doodle-doo  remark  to  the 
hens  on  the  fence,  stepped  into  the  potato  patch 
and  helped  himself  to  a  bug,  as  if  killing  an  ad 
versary  was  merely  an  early  morning  incident. 

At  the  same  moment  Mary  caught  sight  of  me  at 
the  window. 

"I'll  pay  you  for  this,  Mary  Thompson;  I  will, 
if  it's  the  last  thing  I  ever  do!"  she  screamed,  pink 
with  fury. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  63 

"Remember  you  are  sanctified,  Mary  Fisher; 
and  ' Vengeance  is  mine,  .  .  .  saith  the  Lord,'" 
I  shouted  back. 

We  stood  measuring  mortal  minds  for  a  moment; 
then  Mary  went  into  the  house. 

The  next  Sunday  we  sat  side  by  side  in  the 
church.  It  was  Communion  Day.  When  those 
who  were  "in  love  and  charity  with  their  neigh 
bours"  were  invited  to  come  forward  and  partake 
of  the  sacrament,  I  made  haste  to  accept  the  in 
vitation,  but  Mary  hung  back. 

These  little  incidents,  so  trivial,  make  up  the 
family  life  of  a  church,  and  they  have  more  effect 
upon  it  than  the  Conference  assessments.  How 
many  times  have  I  seen  church  members  watch 
some  brother  on  Communion  Sunday  to  see 
whether  he'd  dare  take  the  sacrament,  having 
private  knowledge  of  a  difficulty  he'd  had  with  an 
other  brother;  in  fact,  it  requires  courage  to  stay 
away,  for  everybody  wants  to  know  why  you  do. 
And  they  will  find  out.  Fortunately  the  Lord  is 
hospitable.  I  doubt  that  He  objects  when  a  bitter- 
hearted  saint  occasionally  takes  what's  offered. 

There  is  always  somebody  in  the  church  who 
makes  religion  a  kind  of  cross-stitch  between  piety 
and  persecution.  I  have  known  a  Christian 
woman  to  aggravate  her  husband  about  his  soul  in 


64  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

a  way  that  was  little  short  of  diabolical.  Sally 
Parks  told  me  this  story  herself. 

"When  I  married  Sam,"  she  said,  "he  was  not  a 
Christian;  but  I  never  rested  until  he  professed  and 
joined  the  church.  I  didn't  worry  him  or  plead 
with  him.  I  just  set  aside  Friday  of  every  week 
to  fast  and  pray  for  my  husband.  I  kept  it  up 
for  ten  years.  During  that  time  I  had  four  babies 
and  did  most  of  my  own  work,  except  on  Fridays. 
Then  I  went  to  my  room  and  left  him  to  manage 
the  best  way  he  could.  He  knew  what  I  was  doing 
and  it  used  to  make  him  mad  at  first;  but  after  a  time 
he  got  used  to  it  At  last  he  gave  in  and  joined 
the  church.  But  I  tell  you  it  was  hard  on  me!" 

It  was  harder  on  Sam.  Everybody  in  town 
knew  his  wife  was  praying  for  him.  He  was  a  good 
man.  You  couldn't  have  told  from  his  walk  and 
conversation  that  he  was  dead  in  his  trespasses  and 
sins;  but  the  consciousness  of  knowing  that  we 
knew  what  his  wife  did  to  him  on  Friday  took  the 
spirit  out  of  him.  He  wore  the  expression  of  a 
sheep-killing  dog.  Finally  he  went  to  the  pastor 
about  it. 

"Brother  Wrenn,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you'd  stop 
my  wife  from  praying  and  fasting  for  me  every 
Friday." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Wrenn, 
astonished. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  65 

"Maybe  you  don't  know  how  it  feels  to  have 
your  wife  desert  you  one  day  in  the  week  and  take 
the  whole  of  it  to  backbite  you  to  the  Lord.  It's 
unfaithful!"  Sam  whimpered. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  repent  and  join  the  church 
then?"  the  preacher  asked. 

"  I  ain't  wicked,"  he  answered  indignantly.  "  I'm 
a  decent,  honest  man  And  I  just  can't  stultify 
myself  by  standing  up  and  admitting  before  all  the 
folks  that  what  she's  been  telling  on  me  to  the  Lord 
for  ten  years  is  so.  It's  been  going  on  for  ten 
years,  I  tell  you!"  he  shouted  "I  can't  stand  it 
much  longer.  I'm  thinking  of  getting  drunk!" 

Sally  never  admits  that  part  of  it;  but  the  story 
goes  that  Brother  Wrenn  called  on  her  and  ad 
vised  her  to  change  her  Christian  tactics. 

Shortly  afterward  Sam  joined  the  church. 
He's  done  very  well  in  it  ever  since — not  what  I 
should  call  a  fierce  abourer  in  the  vineyard,  but  a 
useful  man  when  it  comes  to  squeezing  out  the 
last  quarter  of  the  preacher's  salary  and  raising 
funds  to  paint  the  parsonage. 

As  a  church,  we  have  grown  in  the  love  and 
knowledge  of  Christ  by  the  grace  of  God;  but  we 
grow  in  numbers  the  best  way  we  can,  not  so 
much  by  proselyting  as  by  offering  salvation  on 
easier  terms  than  some  other  denominations. 


66  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

We  get  the  second-blessing  people  because  we 
believe  in  an  emotional  religion  as  the  world  be 
lieves  in  emotional  music  or  poetry,  or  oratory  or 
politics.  We  get  the  backsliders  from  other 
churches,  because  there  is  no  satisfaction  in  be 
longing  to  one  which  predestinates  you  to  dam 
nation  after  you  have  fallen  from  grace  and  feel 
badly  enough  about  it  anyhow.  We  cherish 
backsliders,  which  is  a  credit  to  our  doctrines  and 
our  patience,  as  it  is  proper  to  keep  a  sick  man  in  a 
hospital  instead  of  turning  him  out  because  he 
gets  a  backset  now  and  then. 

Doctor  Edd  is  one  of  these  infirmary  souls, 
subject  to  almost  fatal  lapses  in  his  efforts  to  be  a 
Christian.  He  joined  the  Baptist  Church  when 
he  came  here,  years  ago,  to  practise  medicine. 
He  is  a  good  doctor  and  soon  had  the  best  people 
in  town  as  his  patients.  But,  though  he  is  not  a 
drunkard,  he  drinks  periodically.  And  when  he 
does  he  puts  his  whole  mind,  body,  and  soul  into 
his  cups. 

The  Baptists  turned  him  out  during  one  of  his 
protracted  sprees.  Then  he  reformed  and  joined 
the  Presbyterians.  They  bore  with  him  until  he 
reflected  upon  the  dignity  of  the  church.  It  was 
his  inebriate  fancy  when  he  went  on  a  spree  to 
imagine  some  one  was  desperately  ill,  and  he  would 
start  at  a  gallop  to  save  a  life. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  67 

One  day  he  rushed  into  the  study  where  Doctor 
McAndrews,  the  Presbyterian  minister,  was  pre 
paring  his  next  sermon  and  ordered  him  to  bed. 
The  old  Scotchman  protested  that  he  was  well 
and  had  no  need  of  a  physician. 

"But  you  are  not  well,  my  dear  sir.  Don't  I 
hear  you  preach  every  Sunday?  Don't  I  know  a 
sick  preacher  when  I  see  him!"  exclaimed  Doctor 
Edd,  swaying  on  his  legs,  but  firm  in  the  conviction 
that  this  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  "  Let  me 
see  your  tongue!"  he  demanded. 

The  indignant  minister  was  forced  to  comply. 
The  doctor  wrinkled  his  nose  at  it  and  said  it 
confirmed  his  worst  suspicions.  He  refused  to 
leave  the  house  until  he  saw  the  minister  un 
dressed  and  in  bed,  all  of  which  was  accomplished 
with  angry  opposition  on  one  hand  and  threats  of 
violence  on  the  other. 

For  this  unseemly  conduct  he  was  dismissed 
from  the  Presbyterian  Church.  But  he  had  a 
horror  of  being  a  lost  sheep.  He  wished  to  be 
among  good  people,  even  if  he  was  not  good.  He 
was  like  a  beseeching  alien  who  has  had  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  quarantined  against  him.  At 
the  beginning  of  our  next  revival  he  asked  to  join 
our  church.  He  was  contrite  and  he  was  hopeful. 
We  received  him. 

He  goes  on  an  occasional  spree,  bringing  us  into 


68  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

disrepute  as  a  lax  church.  Then  he  recovers  him 
self,  with  a  cheerfulness  and  courage  that  are 
sublime.  He  remembers  his  sins  no  more  for 
ever.  We  have  lost  hope  of  his  reformation  long 
since,  but  he  never  does.  He  is  the  official  pub 
lican  in  our  church.  He  sits  on  the  back  bench 
looking  tragically  worn,  like  a  good  soul  crucified 
in  his  own  flesh.  When  he  is  not  there  we  miss 
him.  We  are  more  sorrowful  over  his  one  trans 
gression  than  the  many  committed  by  hardier 
Christians,  which  do  not  detain  them  from  being 
present. 

He  has  lost  all  his  practice  except  among  the 
poor  and  unrespectable.  We  do  not  know  how  he 
lives.  But  he  is  generous.  He  is  so  ready  to 
serve  that  it  is  as  if  we  had  done  him  a  favour  when 
the  pastor  asks  him  to  go  ten  miles  to  attend  a 
sick  woman  who  cannot  be  cured  but  who  wants 
a  doctor  just  to  hearten  her  up.  He  is  the  one 
man  among  us  who  knows,  next  to  God,  who  the 
poor  are  that  keep  their  poverty  concealed  as  if 
it  were  a  disgrace.  And  he  never  betrays  them. 
But  he  will  come  by  very  privately  and  take  up 
a  collection  of  ham  bones  out  of  my  smokehouse, 
and  wheedle  me  out  of  a  dress  I  don't  really  want 
to  part  with,  for  one  of  his  secret  mendicants. 

Sometimes  I  have  thought  maybe  Doctor  Edd 
will  be  one  of  those  lasts  here  who  shall  be  "first"" 


"IT  IS  AS   IF   WE   HAD    DONE    HIM    A    FAVOUR    WHEN    THE 
PASTOR     ASKS     HIM     TO    GO    TEN    MILES    TO     ATTEND    A 

SICK  WOMAN'' 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  69 

in  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  But  I  cannot  see  him 
so.  I  always  think  of  him  seated  somewhere  in 
a  darker  place  behind  the  shining  hosts,  troubled 
about  his  wings,  hiding  his  crown,  waiting  to  serve. 

Dregs  in  the  bottom  of  the  cup  is  a  figure  of 
speech  used  to  denote  the  unfit  and  the  unlovely; 
but  sugar  settles  to  the  bottom,  too.  And  it 
matters  not  how  much  we  stir  this  church  with 
disputes  and  scratching  piety,  there  remains  the 
sweetness  of  two  or  three  saints  that  is  never 
dissolved  in  our  bitterness.  This  is  a  good  deal 
to  say  for  them,  because  presently  you  will  see 
that  there  are  many  bitter-herb  souls  and  stinging- 
nettle  Christians  among  us. 

Sister  Molly  Brown  is  one  of  those  sugar-cured 
in  the  Scriptures  of  love  and  patience. 

She  is  a  tall  woman,  with  a  long,  homely  face, 
high,  red-knobbed  cheek  bones,  small,  faded  brown 
eyes,  and  a  beautiful  mouth  which  neither  years 
nor  poverty  seems  to  change.  It  is  a  very  sweet 
double  line  of  benevolence  in  an  otherwise  for 
bidding  countenance.  Her  feet  are  wide  femi 
nine  flapjacks,  which  she  slaps  down  with  violent 
energy  when  she  walks.  She  is  a  widow  and  she 
keeps  the  only  boarding-house  in  Berton.  It  is  a 
kind  of  adult  orphans'  asylum  for  anybody  who 
comes  along,  from  the  man  "without  a  job"  to 
Doctor  Edd,  who  is  the  orphan  Molly  always  has 


70  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

with  her.  She  bears  with  these  people,  the  dys 
pepsia  of  the  school  teachers,  the  butter-eating 
extravagance  of  those  who  didn't  pay  their  last 
month's  bill.  She  slaves  for  them  in  a  way  that 
tries  my  patience  but  never  her  own.  She  de 
fends  them  to  the  last  ditch  and  does  their  laundry 
besides. 

She  never  visits  as  other  women  do;  never  goes 
anywhere  except  to  church,  where  she  is  to  be 
seen  every  Sunday  seated  in  one  of  the  foremost 
pews,  fast  asleep,  nodding  unconscious  amens  to 
the  preacher.  Sometimes  it  is  funny  to  watch 
her — the  damaging-to-all-of-us  parts  of  the  sermon 
to  which  she  wags  assent.  I  reckon  this  nap 
she  takes  during  Sabbath  services,  having  dis 
missed  her  boarders  and  her  cares,  is  the  soundest 
sleep  she  gets. 

She  is  always  heels  over  head  in  debt  at  the 
stores,  but  her  credit  is  wonderful.  It  is  based, 
like  faith,  on  "the  substance  of  things  hoped  for, 
the  evidence  of  things  not  seen."  Every  merchant 
in  this  town  will  tell  you  she  is  a  "good  moral 
risk." 

She  keeps  a  bone  barrel  in  her  woodshed.  On 
the  morning  of  the  day  the  Woman's  Missionary 
Society  meets  she  piles  the  bones  on  a  wheel 
barrow,  takes  them  to  the  butcher  and  sells  them 
for  ten  cents,  with  which  she  pays  her  dues  to  the 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  71 

society.  Sometimes  I  think  Molly  Brown's  dimes 
ought  to  count  for  more  than  they  do  when  the 
Mission  Board  of  our  church  is  making  appro 
priations  for  just  the  travelling  expenses  of  its 
officers. 

If  some  one  is  ill  or  in  trouble,  or  has  fallen  from 
grace,  her  domestic  nature  undergoes  a  swift  and 
radical  change.  She  leaves  her  laundry  in  the 
tub.  She  casts  her  boarders  from  her,  neglecting 
them  shamefully,  and  she  goes  out  to  comfort  or 
to  seek  and  to  save  that  which  is  lost.  When  we 
see  her  kiting  along  on  a  winter  morning,  with  a 
shawl  pinned  over  her  head  and  her  hands  wrapped 
in  her  apron  for  warmth,  we  know  some  one  is  in 
affliction,  and  that  presently  that  one  will  have 
a  cook,  a  housemaid,  a  nurse,  and  a  spiritual 
adviser  by  her  side. 

You  never  can  tell  where  poetry  will  break  out 
in  a  community.  One  day  Molly  said  this  to 
me  in  answer  to  a  question  I  should  not  have 
asked : 

"I  am  not  sure  of  my  salvation,  Sister  Thomp 
son.  I  ain't,  to  say,  as  faithful  to  the  church  as 
I  ought  to  be.  Sometimes  I  want  to  get  out  of  it 
and  do  what  I  do  just  for  the  Lord." 

I  looked  at  her  inquisitively. 

"Seems  as  if  I  just  divided  with  Him,"  she  con 
tinued.  "It's  confusing.  My  life's  slipping  away 


7£  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

from  me  into  a  journey  through  things  I  don't 
know  and  can't  see.  I  feel  as  if  I'd  walked  a 
long,  long  way  with  my  eyes  holden,  just  touching 
folks  as  I  passed,  as  the  blind  do.  It  seems 
strange,  when  I  know  everybody  here  and  never 
go  about  much."  She  finished  simply,  never 
suspecting  that  she  has  been  across  country  many 
a  time  to  the  strange  kingdoms  of  God. 

I  do  not  question  that  Emily  Peters  is  as  good 
as  Molly,  but  she's  different.  She  has  what  I 
call  a  sheep-face  sou  .  You  can  see  it  every  time 
you  look  at  her — a  poor,  dumb  thing  somewhere 
in  her,  which  stares  at  you  from  her  large,  blue, 
beseeching  eyes  asking  you,  for  the  love  of  mercy, 
to  spare  her.  She  is  not  good;  she  knows  her 
transgressions  are  many  and  her  sins  very  grievous; 
but,  oh,  she  is  trying  so  hard,  so  hard  to  do  right! 
And  do  I  think  the  pastor  can  help  her  if  she 
tells  him  everything?  I  always  advise  against 
that  extreme  course. 

"You  are  a  single  woman,  Emily,  and  you  should 
be  modest  about  your  faults.  Don't  admit  'em 
to  anybody,"  I  say. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  doubt  that  she  ever  had 
the  courage  to  commit  a  real,  upstanding  sin  in 
her  life;  but  she  is  forever  doing  something  to 
herself,  keeping  fasts,  giving  tithes  of  all  she  has 
now  and  then.  She  reads  a  book  of  religious 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  73 

meditations,  one  for  every  day  in  the  year;  and 
she  would  never  take  the  one  intended  for  Tuesday, 
February  the  eleventh,  say,  for  Friday,  February 
the  fourteenth. 

She  is  the  same  way  about  her  health.  She 
takes  exercises  with  writhings  most  awful  to  £ee, 
developing  secret  muscles.  If  her  head  attracts 
her  attention  with  an  ache  she  goes  about  all 
winter  with  a  black  veil  wrapped  round  it  and  with 
her  little  withered  face  sticking  out.  But  most 
often  it's  her  digestion.  Then  she  will  wear  the 
whole  hot  summer  a  bandage  round  her,  just  to  see 
if  it  won't  help.  But  it  never  does.  She  can't  eat 
green  corn  without  being  "upset,"  no  matter 
what  she  does.  This  year  she  got  an  idea  about 
her  feet.  One  day  I  met  her  coming  down  the 
street,  bent  forward,  elbows  akimbo,  walking  with 
her  toes  turned  in.  She  looked  like  a  sheep  escaped 
from  the  shambles  with  its  legs  tied. 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter,  Emily!"  I  ex 
claimed,  distressed  to  see  her  in  such  a  fix. 

"It's  bunions,"  she  said,  stopping,  but  careful  to 
keep  the  ends  of  her  shoes  touching.  "I've  two 
awful  corns  on  the  bottoms  of  my  feet  and  I've 
heard  walking  pigeon-toed  will  cure  them." 

That  is  Emily  Peters,  inside  and  out,  Job's  own 
sister  in  the  flesh  and  a  neurasthenic  invalid  in  the 
spirit.  But  you  cannot  induce  her  to  take  a  firm 


74  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

stand  in  the  church  for  anything,  she  is  so  afraid  of 
making  herself  worse  than  she  is.  When  we  have  a 
row  in  our  missionary  society  she's  a  neutral. 
When  the  congregation  is  split,  like  the  Red  Sea, 
over  whether  we  shall  have  an  evangelist  to  help 
our  preacher  during  a  revival,  or  repent  of  our  sins 
the  best  way  we  can  under  his  familiar  preaching, 
she  is  still  a  neutral.  When  I  see  her  at  such  times, 
sitting  three  benches  in  the  rear  of  the  argument,  I 
could  spew  her  out  of  my  mouth  for  being  neither 
hot  nor  cold.  But  you  will  find  her  in  your  church, 
too. 

Like  all  Gaul,  every  church  is  divided  into  three 
parts — the  Christians,  the  hardened  saints,  and  the 
choir.  The  Christians  are  the  least  conspicuous. 
The  pastor  never  finds  out  who  they  are  until  he 
has  been  with  us  long  enough  to  look  about  him. 
They  never  "lead  in  prayer,"  or  testify  of  their 
victorious  struggles  in  an  experience  meeting. 
They  do  what  they  are  told  to  do  and  let  it  go  at 
that.  But  this  church  wouldn't  last  twelve 
months  if  it  were  not  for  their  dull  peace  among  us. 
You  may  see  them  every  Sabbath  day  occupying 
all  the  temperate  zone  behind  the  hardened  saints 
and  the  choir,  like  a  windbreak  between  them  and 
Providence;  middle-aged  bald-headed  men,  mid 
dle-aged  double-chinned  women,  who  listen  to  the 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  75 

sermon,  try  their  best  to  remember  the  text,  and 
never  fall  out  with  the  preacher. 

My  experience  is  that  most  of  the  rows  and 
schisms  in  this  church  start  with  the  saints.  I 
have  seen  many  an  Old  Adam  steward,  like  Tom 
Warren,  sitting  in  the  amen  corner,  with  a  horned 
soul — not  satanic,  but  the  ordinary  spreading  ant 
lers  of  an  aged  steer,  usually  lowered  to  goad  the 
preacher  in  the  flanks  or  some  other  steward  in  the 
ribs. 

For  ten  years  three  or  four  of  our  prominent 
members  have  conducted  a  feud  with  the  ferocity 
of  outlaws.  Old  man  Warren  fell  out  with  Roger 
Peters  about  the  line  fence  between  their  two 
farms.  The  Discipline  of  our  church  forbids  a 
brother  to  go  to  law  with  another  brother;  so  they 
occupied  all  their  spare  time  in  moving  that  fence 
back  and  forth  until  they  hated  each  other  like 
poison.  Peters  changed  his  seat  from  the  right- 
hand  side  of  the  pulpit  to  the  left,  so  as  not  to  be 
near  Warren. 

This  disturbance  led  to  the  investigation  of  line 
fences  throughout  the  entire  community,  and  it 
was  found  that  more  than  half  of  them  w^ere  "in 
dispute."  Some  of  our  members  quit  the  church. 
But  the  epidemic  spread  to  the  Baptists.  They 
had  no  church  rules  to  hold  them  down;  so  the 
court  dockets  for  two  years  were  filled  with  cases 


76  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

about  line  fences.  When  they  were  decided  the 
men  who  lost  quit  the  Baptists  and  came  to  us, 
with  their  bitterness  sticking  to  them. 

Preachers  came  and  preachers  went.  They  ex 
horted,  prayed,  pleaded  in  vain.  They  could  not 
bring  harmony  between  these  brethren,  contending 
like  unarmed  savages  over  their  dividing  lines.  The 
women  took  up  their  husbands'  quarrels.  Mrs. 
Warren  said  she  would  not  speak  to  Mrs.  Peters — 
not  if  she  "met  her  face  to  face."  The  young 
people  and  sinners  looked  on.  The  church  began  to 
lose  its  grip  in  the  community.  Sometimes  for  a 
whole  year,  if  we  had  a  very  tactful  pastor,  there 
would  be  a  lull,  merely  a  truce.  Tom  Warren  and 
Roger  Peters  would  not  vote  together,  even  to  re 
duce  the  pastor's  salary.  And  it  was  a  sight  to  see 
Warren  go  up  one  aisle  and  Peters  up  the  other  to 
take  the  morning  "offering";  then  stand  so  far 
apart  with  it  before  the  altar  that  the  blessing 
asked  scarcely  reached  from  one  basket  to  the 
other. 

Meantime  the  reflex  of  these  disturbances  was 
felt  in  the  Woman's  Home  and  Foreign  Missionary 
Societies.  We  could  not  agree  upon  any  way  to 
raise  funds  as  we  had  done  before,  with  ice-cream 
festivals  in  summer  and  oyster  suppers  in  winter. 
By  way  of  adding  to  the  general  confusion  some 
members  of  the  Aid  Society  decided  to  have  a  rag 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  77 

carpet  woven  for  the  parsonage  parlour.  They 
compounded  their  rags  and  old  clothes  for  this  pur 
pose.  When  the  weaving  was  done  Mrs.  Warren 
told  the  pastor's  wife  to  send  for  the  carpet,  sew 
it  together,  and  put  it  down.  This  was  Mrs. 
WTrenn,  who  was  expecting  her  second  baby  and 
was  frail.  Therefore,  she  did  not  feel  equal  to  the 
labour  of  making  the  carpet. 

Mrs.  Warren  said  she  had  suspected  Sister 
Wrenn  of  being  too  proud;  now  she  knew  she  was, 
since  she  had  her  nose  turned  up  at  that  carpet. 

Sister  Wrenn  was  rebellious.  She  had  a  little 
money  of  her  own  and  showed  her  independence  by 
refusing  to  call  anybody  brother  or  sister.  I  doubt 
that  she  was  altogether  satisfied  with  the  situation. 
No  preacher's  wife  is;  but  few  of  them  dare  say  so. 

"If  I'd  known  John  Wrenn  was  to  be  a  preacher 
I'd  have  got  a  divorce  before  I  married  him,"  she 
said,  laughing,  one  day. 

And  it  was  hard  on  her,  accustomed  to  comforts 
and  freedom,  still  wearing  her  wedding  clothes 
after  three  years  in  the  itineracy,  and  fighting  to 
keep  her  babies  off  a  rag  carpet  with  all  the  germs 
in  town  woven  into  it. 

Mrs.  Warren  was  so  angry  she  called  a  secret 
caucus  of  the  Aid  Society.  I  heard  about  it 
through  Sally  Parks  and  I  sent  word  to  Sister 
Wrenn  to  be  sure  to  go. 


78  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

We  both  went,  but  we  were  not  expected. 
Charlotte  Warren  was  speaking  to  half  a  dozen 
women  when  we  went  in. 

"We've  worked  and  slaved  to  make  our  parson 
age  comfortable,"  she  was  saying.  "We  have 
given  and  spent  for  it.  We  ran  round  this  town  for 
days  collecting  rags  for  that  carpet.  And  what 
thanks  do  we  get?"  she  fairly  screamed.  "Scorn, 
not  gratitude,  my  sisters;  that's  what  we  get!  A 
rag  carpet  is  not  good  enough.  That's  the  way  we 
have  been  treated;  and  I  move  we  dissolve  this  Aid 
Society!"  she  concluded,  smacking  the  palm  of  one 
hand  with  her  fist. 

I  glanced  round  me.  There  was  Sally  Parks, 
looking  more  than  ever  like  a  raw-boned  angel  with 
a  grievance.  Emily  Peters  was  squenched  up  close 
in  the  corner  next  to  the  wall,  as  if  she  hoped  no 
body  would  see  her  or  insist  upon  her  voting. 
Taggy  Lip  ton  was  crazy  to  help  with  the  sensation; 
"but" — that  doubting  word  was  written  in  capital 
letters  upon  her  face.  The  other  women  waited  to 
see  which  way  the  cat  would  jump.  Then  I  caught 
sight  of  Sister  Wrenn  not  quite  conquered,  tears  in 
her  eyes,  knowing  she  must  not  answer  back  for  her 
husband's  sake. 

I  do  not  know  why  the  wife  of  a  preacher  always 
looks  like  a  widow;  but  she  does,  careworn  and  for 
lorn.  And  her  husband's  congregation  usually 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  79 

treats  her  as  if  she  were  a  widow — gives  her  things, 
and  not  the  things  she  wants;  loans  her  the  par 
sonage,  and  makes  her  feel  that  it  is  a  loan. 

These  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind  quicker 
than  a  flash,  the  whole  scene  and  the  meaning  of  it. 

"Do  I  hear  a  second  to  my  motion?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Warren,  as  much  as  to  say:  "Somebody  had 
better  second  it!" 

"I  second  it,"  cheeped  Sally. 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Sally!"  I  cried, 
getting  up  as  fast  as  I  could  and  going  down  the 
aisle  to  face  Mrs.  Warren. 

"As  for  you,  Charlotte,"  I  began,  shaking  my 
finger  in  her  face,  "y°u  who  have  never  had  a  child 
and  don't  know  what  it  is  to  sew  carpets  together  in 
such  a  condition — you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself !  You  persecute  every  preacher's  w4f e  who 
comes  to  us.  You  wouldn't  let  the  last  one  beat 
the  rugs  for  fear  she'd  wear  them  out.  You  com 
plained  because  her  little  girl  stood  up  in  one  of  the 
parlour  chairs.  You've  been  the  thorn  in  the  side 
of  that  parsonage.  But  you  can't  dissolve  this  Aid 
Society  if  there  is  a  single  Christian  woman  in  this 
church.  It's  going  on  if  I'm  the  only  member! 
Now  let  us  pray!"  I  said,  in  a  sudden  flank  move 
ment,  wheeling  and  turning  my  back  on  Charlotte 
Warren,  who  was  too  astonished  to  get  her  breath 
before  we  were  all  on  our  knees. 


80  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"Oh,  Lord,"  I  began,  determined  to  get  my  ver 
sion  of  the  affair  before  the  throne  of  grace,  "Thou 
knowest  that  we  are  poor  and  unprofitable  serv 
ants  in  this  church,  seeking  our  own  rather  than 
Thy  glory.  Thou  knowest  how  the  stewards  have 
become  stumbling-blocks  in  the  way  of  sinners 
with  their  vain  strivings  to  grab  and  keep  each 
other's  land  and  line  fences.  And,  O  Lord,  Thou 
knowest  in  particular  Charlotte  Warren — how 
from  her  youth  up  she  has  been  overbearing,  proud, 
contentious.  Have  mercy  on  her,  our  Father. 
Send  her  sorrows  and  tribulations  to  soften  her 
hard  heart.  Bring  her  head  low  in  the  dust  if  need 
be.  O  Lord,  open  her  blind  eyes  and  her  deaf  ears 
and  teach  her  the  law  of  kindness  in  her  tongue." 
I  could  hear  sniffings  on  all  sides  as  I  went  on: 
"And  forgive  the  weakness  and  meanness  of  any 
woman  here  who  was  ready  to  follow  in  her  foot 
steps.  And,  Lord,  cause  Thy  tender  mercies  to 
shine  on  our  pastor's  wife;  fill  her  mouth  with  good 
things.  Be  Thou  her  strength  and  portion.  For 
Jesus'  sake.  Amen." 

I  rose  from  my  knees;  and  I  went  out  of  the 
church  followed  by  every  woman  in  it. 

"Sister  Thompson,  this  is  the  first  time  I've  ever 
been  proud  to  be  a  preacher's  wife!"  said  Sister 
Wrenn  at  the  door. 

"Well,  it's  a  great  honour,  I  can  tell  you,  my 


A  Circuit  Rider9 s  Widow  81 

dear.  And,  remember,  it  won't  hurt  you  to  claim 
kin  with  the  elect  of  your  husband's  congregation," 
I  added  with  a  twinkle  in  my  eye.  "Even  Char 
lotte  Warren,  who  is  a  proud  tyrant,  is  a  good 
woman.  We  are  all  doing  the  best  we  can — con 
sidering  that  the  devil  is  such  an  active  part  of 
human  nature." 

I  do  not  question  that  Christians  are  a  greater 
source  of  anger  and  trouble  to  our  Heavenly 
Father  than  His  sinners,  for  He  can  forgive  them 
their  transgressions  of  which  they  repent;  but 
it  must  be  much  more  difficult  to  forgive  the 
saints  their  perverse,  hard-headed  virtues.  They 
become  too  confident.  I  doubt  if  any  man  or 
woman  can  live  acceptably  guided  by  his  own 
mind,  however  moral  or  intelligent  he  may  be. 
"By  my  spirit,  saith  the  Lord" — means  more 
than  mind.  If  this  were  not  the  case  Charlotte 
Warren  would  be  a  perfect  Christian. 

As  it  is,  I  suspect  her  of  being  a  Pharisee 
straddling  the  fence  of  spiritual  things.  She 
lives  up  to  the  Ten  Commandments  like  a  menace 
in  this  town.  She  does  not  commit  murder; 
she  does  not  steal ;  she  never  covets  her  neighbour's 
maidservant,  or  his  ox,  or  his  ass,  being  too  well 
satisfied  with  her  own  things;  and  she  pays  her 
tithes  rigidly.  But  I  have  observed  that  tithers 
are  severe  in  their  judgments  of  those  less  strict 


82  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

in  their  interpretations  of  the  law.  She  has  al 
ways  been  a  scourge  to  our  pastor's  wife — keeping 
her  finger  on  her,  so  to  speak. 

Being  a  virtuous  woman,  she  is  hard  on  those 
who  must  still  achieve  virtue. 

Before  I  thought  she  had  time  to  recover  from 
the  shock  of  that  prayer  I  prayed  for  her  in  the 
Aid  Society,  we  hitched  horns  again,  because  she 
charged  Lorena  Day  with  kidnapping  Lizzie  Bart's 
baby  and  had  her  arrested. 

Lorena  is  a  poor  girl  who  went  wrong  here 
years  ago  and  has  been  maid-of -all-work  in  Molly 
Brown's  house  ever  since,  trying  to  live  down  her 
shame — which  no  woman  can  do. 

Lizzie  was  a  poor,  lost  thing  herself.  She 
died  when  this  baby  was  born.  Lorena  and 
Doctor  Edd  were  with  her,  and  she  gave  the 
child  to  Lorena. 

Charlotte  said  the  place  for  it  was  the  Orphans' 
Home.  She  didn't  approve  of  allowing  a  girl 
like  Lorena  to  bring  up  a  child;  but  Molly  and  I 
thought  the  little  thing  would  give  her  something 
good  to  live  for  and  be  the  only  pleasure  she'd  ever 
get  out  of  life.  So  we  went  before  the  judge  and 
explained  how  Lorena  came  to  have  the  baby. 
And  he  agreed  to  allow  her  to  keep  it,  to  Char 
lotte's  unbounded  indignation.  But  I  never  saw 
a  happier  woman  than  Lorena  was  as  she  walked 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  83 

from  that  courtroom  with  a  child  that  was  to 
be  hers  wrapped  up  in  her  shawl  and  hugged  close 
to  her  breast. 

This  is  the  difference  between  Charlotte  Warren 
and  me.  She  never  stands  before  any  bar  of 
judgment.  She's  always  on  the  other  side,  pass 
ing  verdicts  herself.  But  if  you  get  down  to 
the  bottom  I  doubt  that  there  is  a  penny's  worth 
of  salvation  difference  between  us.  For,  if  she 
is  a  Pharisee,  I  am  an  old  militant  woman  in 
the  church,  ready  to  fight  if  that's  the  only  way  to 
keep  the  peace  right.  I  never  have  been  able  to 
keep  it  or  allow  anybody  else  to  keep  theirs  if  I 
thought  it  was  wrong.  I've  been  a  flaming  sword 
in  every  row  we  have  in  this  church,  and  we  seem 
to  grow  in  grace  through  one  quarrel  to  another. 

I  have  told  Tom  Warren  many  a  time  what  I 
think  of  the  fuss  about  the  ten  feet  of  disputed 
ground  between  him  and  Roger  Peters.  I  call 
it  their  ten  feet  of  damnation.  I  have  let  Roger 
know  more  than  once  what  I  thought  of  his  taking 
the  fence  down  and  turning  his  cows  in  on  War 
ren's  oats.  I  have  pulled  the  ears  of  our  stewards 
in  public  places,  when  their  backs  were  turned, 
because  they  were  behind  with  the  preacher's 
salary.  I  have  stood  up  for  the  missionary  col 
lections  in  this  church,  and  the  educational  funds, 
when  I  knew  both  were  really  going  into  brick 


84  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

and  mortar  and  pride  and  spite,  instead  of  into 
missions  and  education.  I  have  stood  by  some 
thing  the  preacher  said  that  gave  offense  when  I 
knew  he  was  wrong  and  ought  not  to  have  said  it. 

Sometimes  I  get  terribly  worked  up  over  just 
myself  for  fear  I'll  come  in  the  class  which  in  the 
Last  Day  will  say:  "Lord!  Lord!" — and  He  will 
say:  "Depart  from  me,  ye  that  work  iniquity; 
I  never  knew  you." 

What  I  want  to  know  is  how  anybody  can 
work  at  all  in  this  world  without  working  more  or 
less  iniquity.  Molly  Brown  is  the  best  Christian 
in  this  town,  and  she  systematically  keeps  able- 
bodied  men  and  women  in  idleness  by  feeding 
them  whether  they  pay  or  not,  when  if  she  didn't 
they  would  go  out  and  earn  a  living.  If  there 
ever  was  a  sin,  that's  one;  and  I  have  told  her  so. 
Doctor  Edd  is  the  bad  man  of  the  town,  and  he 
does  more  good  than  the  rest  of  us  put  together; 
and  I've  told  him  that,  too,  which  may  have  en 
couraged  him  in  his  wickedness.  It  is  all  very 
confusing  to  an  old  woman  with  a  good  heart  and 
a  bad  disposition. 

You  never  hear  of  the  same  kind  of  disturbances 
between  Social  workers  as  we  have  among  Chris 
tian  workers.  The  reason  is,  they  make  a  science 
of  the  uplift  business  and  we  make  a  religion  of  it. 
They  treat  the  cause  of  the  diseases  of  poverty 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widmv  85 

and  vice.  And  we  do  what  we  can  to  relieve 
just  the  symptoms  of  those  disorders  by  prayers 
and  charities.  One  way  is  no  more  successful 
than  the  other.  The  Social  workers  get  a  few 
jobs  every  year  for  the  unemployed,  which  they 
lose  during  the  next  strike.  We  win  a  few  souls 
every  year  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  who  are 
bent  and  determined  to  backslide  every  chance 
they  get.  They  do  not  settle  the  industrial  prob 
lems  and  we  do  not  win  the  world  for  Christ.  I 
have  sometimes  thought  if  they  stressed  spiritual 
values  more,  and  if  we  stressed  material  values 
more,  we  might  join  forces  in  a  common  cause, 
route  the  financiers  and  philanthropists,  discipline 
the  bishops  and  the  saints,  and  accomplish  enough 
to  show  we  have  lived  and  served  in  our  day  and 
generation. 

You  are  now  familiar  with  the  congregation 
in  this  church.  You  can  stand  on  this  page, 
look  through  the  door  on  Sunday  morning,  and 
see  us  all  sitting  inside,  like  good  Christian  souls — 
which  we  are  in  the  main:  Tom  Warren  in  one 
amen  corner,  Roger  Peters  in  the  other,  each  sur 
rounded  by  his  sympathizers;  Taggy  Lipton, 
Charlotte  Warren,  Sally  Parks,  and  the  rest  of 
the  prominent  church  workers,  occupying  upper- 
pew  seats;  Molly  Brown,  dozing  in  front;  Doctor 


86  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

Edd  on  the  publican  bench,  behind  even  the  gay 
young  sinners — and  the  preacher  standing  in 
the  pulpit  like  a  target  for  all.  But  there  is  a 
short  bench  occupied  by  two  men  and  two  women, 
with  the  organist  seated  midway  between  them, 
far  down  at  the  very  front.  It  is  not  merely 
that  they  hold  the  strategic  position  in  the  house; 
they  look  like  a  foreign  element  in  the  congrega 
tion.  The  men  have  a  sleeked-up  air.  The 
women  are  better  dressed.  Their  hats  cast  asper 
sions  on  all  the  other  hats  in  the  house.  They 
show  even  in  the  line  of  their  backs,  that,  except 
one  sings  alto  and  the  other  sings  soprano,  they 
are  farther  apart  than  the  east  is  from  the  west. 
I  do  not  know  how  they  manage  to  say  so  much 
without  saying  anything;  but  they  do. 

This  is  the  choir.  It  is  also  the  War  Depart 
ment  of  the  church;  the  commissary  that  pro 
visions  scandals,  and  the  arsenal  of  the  musical 
temperament.  An  armed  camp  in  the  midst  of 
a  neutral  country  is  not  more  dangerous  to  peace 
than  a  church  choir  is  to  brotherly  love. 

In  the  first  place,  you  cannot  have  a  good  choir 
without  getting  somebody  in  it  who  sings  tenor 
correctly,  but  lives  by  no  other  virtue.  Sacred 
music  never  sanctifies  the  choir,  though  it  may  be 
a  great  help  in  a  revival.  It  seems  to  draw  certain 
people  who  seek  publicity,  or  it  may  be  that  the 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  87 

gift  of  song  naturally  makes  them  prominent. 
In  any  case  the  choir  publishes  them.  If  you 
want  to  have  a  man's  or  a  woman's  character 
thoroughly  investigated  to  the  last  deed  done  in 
or  out  of  the  body,  do  not  appoint  a  committee 
of  investigation.  Just  ask  them  to  join  the  choir. 
The  whole  church  searches  them  then.  And  the 
way  they  search  one  another  is  appalling.  Their 
jealousies  are  incredible. 

The  first  trouble  we  had  was  with  our  first 
choir,  when  the  preacher  took  the  place  of  Evalina 
Lipton,  Taggy's  sister-in-law,  who  had  always 
been  next  to  the  organist,  and  gave  it  to  Miss 
Buford,  who  was  a  music  teacher  here,  and  asked 
her  to  train  the  choir.  Evalina  vowed  she'd  never 
sing  again.  But  if  you  can  sing  you  cannot  bear 
not  to  sing.  So  at  the  end  of  a  month  she  re 
turned  like  a  martyr  to  her  place.  But  she  had 
a  way  of  closing  her  mouth  in  the  middle  of  a 
note  and  looking  round  at  the  congregation,  as 
much  as  to  say:  "Did  you  hear  her  flat  that  note! 
Nobody  can  sing  soprano  with  a  screech  owTl!" 
And  she  would  keep  her  lips  pressed  together  like 
a  pale  pair  of  waffle  irons  during  the  rest  of  the 
singing. 

The  next  trouble  we  had  was  with  Oscar 
Fain.  He  sang  tenor  like  an  angel  and  kept  his 
marriage  vows  like  a  tomtit.  \Yhen  his  escapades 


88  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

passed  the  bounds  even  of  wifely  endurance,  which 
is  very  great  if  your  husband  has  the  artistic 
temperament,  our  pastor  undertook  to  form  a 
new  choir  composed  of  exemplary  Christians. 
The  effect  was  beyond  belief.  They  carried  the 
tune  as  if  it  were  a  dead  man — by  the  head  and 
heels,  with  the  middle  sagging.  Besides,  many 
persons  in  the  congregation  who  felt  that  they 
could  sing  better  were  indignant  because  they  had 
not  been  chosen. 

At  last  it  was  decided  that  we  should  abolish 
the  choir  and  have  congregational  singing.  But, 
as  the  best  singers  had  been  offended,  only  the 
elder  people,  with  cracked  voices,  who  could 
sing  nothing  but  long-metre  hymns,  would  do 
their  duty.  The  whole  church  developed  the 
musical  temperament,  though  we  never  fell  to 
the  level  of  musical  morals.  Molly  Brown  and  I 
just  went  on  with  our  high  treble  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  Sometimes  ours  were  the  only 
voices  to  be  heard  except  the  preacher's.  As 
Molly  sang  like  a  wandering  sheep  the  fuss  we 
made  was  far  from  harmonious. 

Things  were  in  this  shape  when  Brother  Worthen 
came  to  us  as  pastor.  The  brethren  were  at 
loggerheads  over  their  line  fences.  The  Woman's 
Missionary  Society  was  split  as  clean  as  if  Satan 
had  walked  through  it  over  whether  we  should  or 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  89 

should  not  give  to  the  special  fund  asked  by  the 
Missionary  Board.  Charlotte  Warren  had  made 
her  unsuccessful  effort  to  dissolve  the  Aid  Society, 
and  Molly  Brown  and  I  had  torn  the  church 
music  to  shreds  in  what  I  shall  always  claim  was  a 
laudable  effort  to  preserve  it.  When  we  took 
up  the  hymn  Brother  Wrorthen  gave  out  before 
his  first  sermon,  and  did  the  best  we  could  with 
it,  he  looked  at  us  as  if  we  had  poisoned  him. 

It  is  written:  "The  Lord  will  provide."  And  if 
He  doesn't  see  fit  to  provide,  the  devil  is  certain 
to  do  so. 

About  this  time  Lily  Triggs  came  back  to  Ber- 
ton.  She  was  a  Shanklin  before  she  married 
Triggs,  who  was  a  New  York  man  and  rich  as 
Croesus,  according  to  the  news  we  had.  This 
was  all  we  knew  about  her  until  she  came  back 
that  winter  to  visit  her  folks.  We  thought  more 
of  her  for  doing  this,  seeing  she'd  risen  in  the  world. 

She  came  to  our  church  looking  like  a  partic 
ularly  innocent  little  girl,  very  small  and  slim, 
very  pretty  in  her  velvet  dress  and  her  rich  gold- 
and-black  fox  furs.  She  had  a  red  rose  stuck 
under  the  brim  of  her  velvet  hat  and  a  lot  of  little 
tails  bunched  on  top  of  it.  The  rose  matched 
her  curls  like  poppies  in  the  wheat,  and  the  tur 
quoise  pendant  she  wore  was  the  colour  of  her 
eyes.  In  this  church,  where  nobody  has  a  velvet 


90  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

frock  and  no  one  can  afford  furs  except  Charlotte 
Warren,  who  sets  them  off  like  a  lady  buffalo, 
Lily  was  as  refreshing  and  charming  as  a  bouquet 
in  a  bare  and  dingy  room. 

Molly  and  I  yielded  her  the  hymn  with  thankful 
hearts  when  we  heard  her  soar  away  with  it  in  a 
clear-sky  soprano  voice. 

Everybody  was  delighted;  after  services  Brother 
Worthen  told  Lily  she  was  a  real  godsend. 

"I  love  to  sing — especially  hymns,"  she  said 
prettily. 

Later  in  the  week  he  called  on  her  at  the  Shank- 
lins'  and  asked  her  to  help  him  organize  a  choir. 
She  was  so  pleased;  and  she  was  glad  of  the  op 
portunity  to  serve. 

Before  another  preaching  day  they  had  a  reg 
ular  love  feast  organizing  the  choir.  Oscar  Fain, 
Sam  Parks,  and  Evalina  Lipton,  with  Susie  King 
at  the  organ,  were  all  practising  sacred  music  like 
cooing  doves.  Brother  Worthen  was  thankful 
to  find  somebody  "with  tact,"  like  Mrs.  Triggs, 
to  manage  the  thing. 

We  never  had  such  a  harmonious  choir  or  such 
good  singing.  The  whole  congregation  united 
for  once  on  this,  though  afterward  I  recalled  that 
Sister  Worthen  hung  back  and  looked  dim,  pre 
occupied,  as  if  she  thought  maybe  she  might  have 
to  have  a  tooth  pulled  day  after  to-morrow.  But, 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  91 

as  the  preacher's  wife  usually  wears  an  expres 
sion  of  subconscious  pain  or  anxiety,  I  paid  no 
particular  attention  to  her  beyond  saying  as  I 
went  out: 

"We  certainly  are  to  be  congratulated  upon 
getting  Lily  Triggs  interested  in  the  choir." 

"She  sings  very  well,"  she  answered  faintly. 

I  don't  know  how  to  tell  what  we  went  through 
with  during  the  next  three  months.  It  was  so 
subtly  accomplished  that  it  had  every  appearance 
of  sweetness  and  light — which  invariably  rose  to 
psens  of  praise  every  Sunday  in  the  choir.  Lily 
was  the  high  priestess  in  this  secret  situation. 

After  services  the  men  stood  about  at  a  re 
spectful  distance  regarding  her  with  curious  half- 
admiring,  half-inquisitive  attention.  But  if  she 
had  said  "Coo  sheepy!"  the  last  one  of  them 
would  have  answered  "Baa!"  And  by  the  same 
token  the  women  began  to  hurry  out  of  church  the 
minute  the  benediction  was  pronounced,  as  if 
they  didn't  care  to  witness  what  followed.  But 
Lily  appeared  to  be  sweetly  unconscious  of  that. 

At  last  people  began  to  "talk."  They  didn't 
have  anything  to  talk  about — nothing  definite. 
They  merely  cast  their  remarks  to  the  wind,  ex 
pecting  to  gather  them  before  many  days,  like 
dangerous  bread  cast  upon  the  waters. 

"Lily   Triggs   is   making  quite  a   visit  to  the 


92  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

ShanklinsY'  Taggy  Lipton  suggested  one  Sunday 
as  we  came  out  of  the  church  together. 

"Yes;  but  she  doesn't  come  often,"  I  answered. 

"Still,  it  seems  queer  for  a  wife  to  stay  away 
from  her  husband  for  three  months.  I've  never 
been  away  from  John  three  days  since  we  were 
married." 

I  didn't  say  anything — merely  pitied  John  in 
my  heart.  Taggy  is  a  good  woman,  but  the  kind 
any  man  would  need  more  than  three  days'  rest 
from  in  the  course  of  twenty -five  years. 

Meantime  Lily's  popularity  increased.  She 
was  very  cordial  in  her  manner.  She  loved  her 
neighbours  even  better  than  herself.  Some  of  the 
Baptist  deacons  asked  her  to  sing  in  their  church. 
The  vestrymen  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  offered 
her  a  salary  to  come  to  them.  She  declined — 
said  she  felt  that  the  Methodists  needed  her  more 
and  she  was  so  fond  of  Brother  Worthen.  He  was 
"such  a  dear  man!" 

One  day  Sally  Parks  called.  She  stayed  so 
long  I  knew  she  had  something  to  tell.  I  dropped 
the  conversation  as  one  might  spread  the  net  of 
silence  for  whatever  might  fall  into  it. 

"Lily  Triggs  has  left  the  Shanklins',"  she  an 
nounced  presently. 

"Gone  home?"  I  asked. 

"No;  she's  boarding  at  Molly  Brown's." 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  93 

"That's  just  like  Molly!"  I  exclaimed. 

"That's  just  what  I  said  when  I  heard  Lily 
had  gone  there,"  Sally  agreed. 

"Well,  you  oughtn't  to  have  said  it,  Sally!" 
I  put  in  quickly,  pretending  not  to  notice  the  look 
of  astonished  injustice  with  which  she  regarded  me. 

It  is  easier  to  see  that  a  thing  is  wrong  when 
you  hear  another  person  say  it  than  when  you've 
just  said  it  yourself. 

"They  say  she's  not  going  back  to  her  husband," 
she  began  again. 

"Not  going  back!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"She's  divorced,  and  gets  three  thousand  dollars 
a  year  alimony.  That's  what  it  means!" 

"Merciful  heavens!  And  she  conducting  our 
choir!"  I  groaned,  never  having  even  spoken  to 
a  divorced  woman  before  in  my  life. 

"It  does  seem  strange,"  Sally  agreed  primly, 
"especially  since  there  was  so  much  evidence  put 
in  at  the  trial  of  'corespondents'  on  both  sides. 
What  are  corespondents  in  a  divorce  suit?" 

"They  are  the  vipers  in  the  bosom  of  matri 
mony.  That's  what  they  are!"  I  replied. 

"You  don't  say!"  she  gasped,  not  quite  under 
standing  what  I  meant. 

"  What  will  Brother  Worthen  do?  "  I  said,  sighing. 

"Oh— 'It's  the  duty  of  all  Christian  people  to 
stand  by  Sister  Triggs  in  her  troubles.'  That's 


94  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

what  he  said  when  Sam  told  him,  as  he  felt  bound 
to  do.  It  wouldn't  look  so  bad  if  Sister  Worthen 
had  ever  called  on  Lily;  but  she  hasn't,  and  she 
doesn't  speak  to  her  at  church,"  Sally  added  after 
a  pause. 

"Listen,  Sally,"  I  said,  seeing  what  was  hissing 
in  her  mind;  "don't  talk.  Don't  dot  an  T  or 
cross  a  *t'  in  this  unfortunate  affair.  We've  got 
enough  to  contend  with  now  in  our  church." 

"Oh,  I'll  not  meddle.  I  am  glad  I  had  the 
sense  not  to  be  too  free  with  her  though.  Eva- 
lina  Lipton  says  she  will  quit  the  choir.  And 
Mrs.  Fain  says  she's  stood  enough.  If  Oscar 
doesn't  resign  from  it,  she'll  resign  from  Oscar. 
As  steward,  Sam  doesn't  feel  that  he  ought  to  be 
mixed  up  in  such  a  scandal,"  she  concluded,  rising 
to  go. 

"Scandal,  Sally!  This  isn't  a  scandal,"  I 
insisted  anxiously. 

"If  ever  I  saw  the  naked  face  of  a  scandal  in 
my  life  it's  sitting  in  our  choir  every  Sunday,  Mary 
Thompson;  and  you  know  it!"  she  shot  back  at 
me  from  the  door. 

The  next  issue  of  the  Berton  Banner  had  this 
item  in  the  Locals: 

"Mrs.  Lily  Triggs  has  purchased  the  Carroll 
residence  and  will  make  her  home  here,  to  the 
delight  of  her  many  friends." 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  95 

Well,  she  sent  for  her  furniture  and  moved 
into  the  Carroll  house,  which  is  three  blocks 
up  the  street  from  the  Methodist  Church  and 
parsonage. 

The  next  thing  we  heard  was  that  Charlotte 
Warren  said  she'd  stand  by  Lily  to  the  last  ditch. 
As  a  Christian  woman  she  wouldn't  see  another 
woman  persecuted  who  had  done  nothing  but 
invoke  the  law  to  protect  her  against  a  brutal 
and  unfaithful  husband.  She  said  if  some  of  the 
wives  in  Berton  followed  Lily's  example,  and 
threw  off  the  yoke  of  masculine  oppression,  she'd 
have  more  respect  for  them.  The  day  had  come 
when  thinking  women  knew  their  rights  and  would 
have  them,  thanks  to  the  example  of  Lily  Triggs 
and  other  brave  spirits.  Charlotte  was  one  of 
those  women  whose  narrow  minds  broaden  the 
wrong  way. 

Lily  looked  it  all.  She  was  just  a  sweet  little 
student  in  fortitude,  diligent  in  the  Lord's  service. 
When  the  choir  didn't  meet  at  her  own  house  it 
met  at  the  Warrens'  every  Friday  night.  No 
body  resigned.  To  have  done  so  would  have 
meant  giving  up  your  standing  in  the  best  society. 
Brother  Worthen  stood  by  it  like  a  godfather  and 
the  music  in  our  church  became  sounding  brass 
and  tinkling  cymbals. 

In    the    spring    Lily    organized    the   Woman's 


96  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

Equal  Rights  and  Suffrage  League.  And  Char 
lotte  canvassed  the  town  for  members  as  she  never 
had  done  for  our  Missionary  Society.  The  only 
women  who  did  not  attend  these  meetings  in  Lily's 
beautiful  home  were  the  Shanklin  girls,  Sister 
Worthen,  and  me.  Even  Molly  Brown  went.  She 
said  Lily  was  a  saint.  She  told  how  Mrs.  Triggs 
had  gone  to  the  grocery  store  and  paid  a  debt  for 
her  that  she  had  tried  to  pay  for  years.  She  said 
"that  child"  would  take  the  clothes  off  her  back  to 
warm  a  beggar.  And  I  don't  doubt  it.  But  in 
those  days  I  never  went  to  call  on  Sister  Worthen 
that  the  telephone  bell  didn't  ring.  When  she  had 
answered  it  she'd  come  back  into  the  parlour  look 
ing  as  white  as  a  sheet  and  say: 

"Mrs.  Triggs  wishes  to  speak  to  you  about  the 
hymns  for  next  Sunday,  Charles." 

That  would  be  the  last  we  saw  of  Brother 
Worthen.  You  might  have  thought  they  composed 
the  church  music  over  the  'phone,  they  talked  so 
much  and  so  long  about  it. 

Molly  Brown  didn't  know  enough  about  wo 
man's  rights  or  suffrage  to  believe  in  them,  but  she 
joined  the  league  because  she  believed  in  Lily 
Triggs.  You  can  fool  a  real  saint  every  time. 
That's  why  I  have  strong,  conscientious  scruples 
about  being  one.  I  keep  my  worldly  judgments 
clear  to  save  the  simple,  like  Molly. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  97 

We  didn't  have  a  revival  that  year — not  a  single 
convert  during  a  series  of  meetings  where  the 
preaching  was  good  and  the  music  very  fine.  The 
women  who  usually  pray  and  work  for  sinners  and 
confess  their  own  backslidings  were  so  taken  up 
with  the  league,  and  finding  out  about  their  rights 
and  wrongs,  that  they  wouldn't  and  couldn't  be 
come  interested  enough  in  salvation  to  do  any 
good. 

I  am  not  opposed  to  suffrage  for  women.  When 
I  think  of  the  years  I  have  been  a  good  citizen — • 
never  drunk;  never  disorderly;  never  breaking  a 
single  statute  of  Moses  or  the  state,  if  I  knew  it;  al 
ways  paying  my  taxes;  always  obeying  laws  that  I 
have  had  no  share  in  making — I  say  when  I  con 
sider  these  inequalities  and  injustices  I  get  so  mad 
I  wish  I  had  the  chance  to  stuff  a  ballot  box  with 
the  right  kind  of  votes.  And  maybe  I  would  do  it 
if  I  did  get  the  chance.  No  man  or  any  woman  can 
be  trusted  morally  farther  than  they  have  gone  and 
been  tried  out  by  experience  and  temptations. 

I  have  heard  much  lately  about  the  rights  and 
wrongs  of  w^omen.  Lily  sings  on  Sunday  and 
lectures  on  them  every  Tuesday.  In  my  day  there 
was  no  such  theme.  A  woman  didn't  cherish  her 
rights  or  her  wrongs.  She  had  just  one  husband 
and  a  lot  of  children.  Nobody  looked  in  from  the 
outside  on  marriage  and  wondered  how  such  and 


98  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

such  a  wife  could  bear  to  live  with  the  kind  of 
husband  she  had.  Now  they  do.  Every  mar 
riage  is  under  critical  inspection — not  to  say  suspi 
cion. 

"I  don't  see  how  Maggy  Fain  can  go  on  living 
with  Oscar,  shaming  her  the  way  he  does  with  his 
unfaithfulness.  If  she  had  any  respect  for  herself 
she'd  leave  him  and  get  a  divorce!"  This  from 
Sally  Parks,  who  two  months  before  had  asked  me 
what  a  corespondent  in  a  divorce  case  was ! 

"A  good  wife,  Sally,  lives  with  such  a  husband, 
not  because  she  is  faithful  to  him  but  to  herself;  be 
cause  she  respects  herself — not  him,"  I  answered 
coldly.  "And  nobody  would  have  had  to  tell  you 
that  if  you  hadn't  joined  a  feminist  movement 
conducted  by  a  divorced  woman." 

We  exchanged  these  shots  at  one  another  over 
the  gate  late  one  afternoon.  She  went  on  about  her 
affairs,  somewhere  down  the  street;  but  I  stood 
there  in  the  spring  twilight,  thinkmg  of  all  the 
women  I  have  known  whose  marriages  were  like 
this.  I  could  see  them  in  a  long  procession,  mov 
ing  silently  like  shadows  before  me,  never  com 
plaining  never  telling  on  him  They  do  escape 
every  one.  They  live  in  the  spirit.  That  which 
he  keeps  is  merely  the  withered  garment  she  leaves 
in  his  hands  when  she  goes  This  is  why  they  look 
so  dingy  and  bedraggled.  They  don't  care  how 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  99 

their  remains  look.  The  world  is  full  of  these  poor, 
little,  invisible,  outlawed  spirits  of  women. 

I  endured  these  goings  on  in  Berton  as  long  as  I 
could.  At  last  one  day  Charlotte  Warren  and  Lily 
Triggs  came  in  to  call  on  me. 

Charlotte  sat  down  with  something  like  patience 
or  condescension.  The  two  moods  are  so  similar 
that  sometimes  nobody  can  tell  the  difference. 
Lily  posed  herself  like  a  spring  bough  in  my  best 
rocking-chair.  I  took  a  wide  place  on  the  sofa  and 
looked  at  them  over  the  top  of  my  glasses. 

"We  have  come  to  try  to  interest  you  in  the 
feminist  movement,  Mary,"  said  Charlotte. 

"Which  way  is  the  movement  headed,  Char 
lotte?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  for  the  liberation  of  women;  for  the  re 
dressing  of  their  wrongs;  for  better  laws  to  protect 
them,"  Lily  cut  in,  as  if  she  was  quoting  from  her 
own  lecture. 

"There  are  no  people  in  the  world  for  whom 
such  stringent  laws  of  protection  are  made  as  for 
women.  They  are  so  well  protected  that  they've 
lost  the  sense  of  responsibility,"  I  answered,  shift- 
'ng  my  gaze  to  Lily. 

"Yes,  but "  she  began. 

"A  woman  who  never  does  anything,"  I  in 
terrupted;  "who  spends  her  husband's  money; 
who  lives  unfaithful  to  the  commonest  duties  she 


100  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

owes  him  in  the  home;  who  does  not  even  bear 
children  for  him — can  get  a  divorce  and  alimony  by 
proving  his  unfaithfulness  in  just  one  thing!" 

"You  are  not  opposed  to  suffrage,  Mary.  I've 
heard  you  say  so,"  Charlotte  hurried  to  put  in  by 
way  of  changing  the  end  of  the  subject  with  which 
I  was  poking  into  Lily's  ribs. 

"No;  but  I'm  opposed  to  corrupt  suffrage.  I'm 
chiefly  for  salvation  and  for  the  saving  of  sin 
ners  from  the  error  of  their  ways,  including 


women." 


"But,  dear  Mrs.  Thompson,  the  feminists  be 
lieve  as  strongly  as  you  do  in  the  Christian  re 
ligion,"  Lily  said,  bending  forward  prettily. 

"'Ye  shall  know  them  by  their  fruits.'  I  don't 
like  your  fruits,  Lily,"  I  answered  sternly. 

"Really!"  she  gasped,  drawing  herself  up  and 
flushing  very  red. 

"You  believe  in  divorce,  don't  you?"  I  went  on. 

"Yes." 

"It's  one  of  the  doctrines  of  your  movement,  a? 
you  call  it?" 

"Yes;  but " 

"That's  one  of  the  fruits  I'm  talking  about. 
It's  bad  for  this  town;  for  this  country.  If  you  be 
lieve  in  divorce  you  can't  believe  in  a  Scriptural 
marriage;  and  if  you  destroy  that  you've  destroyed 
the  very  foundations  of  society.  You " 


A  Circuit  Rider  s  Widow  J01 

"Wait,  Mary;  we  didn't  come  to  discuss  this 
subject,"  interposed  Charlotte. 

"No;  but,  now  that  you  are  here,  I'm  going  to 
deliver  my  soul,  Charlotte.  I'll  deliver  a  lecture, 
too,  where  I  think  it  will  do  the  most  good,"  I  said, 
rising  and  settling  my  glasses  more  firmly  on  my 
nose. 

"You  should  remember,  Lily,"  I  went  on, 
"that  the  Lord  didn't  approve  of  that  divorced 
woman  in  the  Bible  who  had  so  many  husbands. 
He  forgave  her.  That's  the  difference  between 
righteous  mercy  and  the  boasted  broad-mindedness 
of  women  like  you,  who  have  simply  slithered 
through  the  virtues  of  your  decent  forebears. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  how  He'll  find  the  means  of 
forgiveness  for  such  as  you,  who  have  put  away  one 
husband  and  are  not  ashamed  to  angle  for  them 
that  belong  to  other  women  You  who  make  a 
virtue  of  your  iniquity !  Oh,  you  can't  fool  me !  I 
sit  behind  the  choir.  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about!" — seeing  her  cast  up  her  eyes  in  outraged 
innocence. 

"Jacob  did  believe  in  God,  though  he  was  a 
mean  man.  David  was  sorry  for  his  sins.  And 
Job  held  to  his  integrity,  though  he  had  a  bad  dis 
position.  And  that  poor  Magdalene  did  want  to 
go  and  sin  no  more  They  were  all  penitent,  or 
faithful,  or  something  that  knit  them  to  His  mercies 


.A. Circuit  Rider9 s  Widow 

as  the  weakness  of  a  child  binds  it  to  a  father's 
care.  But  for  such  as  you,  Lily  Triggs,  I  do  not 
know  how  He'll  measure  His  judgments!" 

I  flopped  back  on  the  sofa  and  fanned  myself, 
while  Lily  cried  in  her  little  lace  handkerchief. 

"Oh,  such  intolerance!  Such  bigotry!"  she 
moaned. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  call  yourself  a  Chris 
tian  woman,  Mary  Thompson!"  cried  Charlotte, 
rising  in  her  wrath  and  making  for  the  door. 

"I  am  not  this  afternoon.  I'm  just  a  decent 
woman  defending  the  statutes  of  virtue  and  hon 
our,  which  are  better  protection  for  women  than  all 
the  votes  in  this  country,"  I  fired  back. 

"I'll  never  sing  in  that  choir  again!"  whimpered 
Lily. 

"I  hope  you  won't!"  I  called  after  her. 

But  she  did.  She  said  Brother  Worthen  had 
persuaded  her  that  it  was  her  duty. 

Mr.  Worthen  was  a  good  man,  but  a  moral  fool 
if  I  ever  saw  one.  Before  the  end  of  the  summer 
the  very  men  and  women  who  were  most  friendly 
with  Lily  Triggs  were  saying  that  the  Conference 
would  not  send  him  another  year;  that  he  was  a 
fine  preacher  but  not  the  pastor  we  needed. 

I  was  so  worried  over  the  feuds  between  the 
brethren,  and  the  choir,  and  my  own  fault-finding 
spirit  that  I  used  to  go  round  behind  the  church 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  103 

sometimes  and  sit  down  among  the  graves  to  com 
fort  myself. 

We  have  buried  our  people  back  there  for  sixty 
years.  Men  who  never  could  get  on  with  each 
other  in  the  church  are  lying  side  by  side,  like 
brothers  in  the  same  bed.  I  say  it  encourages  me 
to  know  that  the  time  will  come  when  we,  too,  will 
finish  our  day's  work  and  the  strife  with  which  we 
test  each  other's  spirits,  and  he  down  out  there, 
like  the  lion  and  the  lamb  together.  But  we  shall 
be  dead,  which  in  my  opinion  is  the  only  safe  way 
for  lions  and  lambs  to  lie  down  together. 

I'd  sit  there  and  watch  the  fallen  autumn 
leaves  come  whirling  and  tipping  over  the  tombs 
like  little  brown  spirits  of  the  dust  blown  in  the 
wind.  I  thought  of  what  a  good  man  old  Amos 
Tell  was,  though  nobody  could  get  on  with  him 
in  the  church.  But  his  contrariness  didn't  count 
now  in  my  thoughts.  I  only  remembered  how  he 
bore  the  burdens  of  the  church;  how  cross  but 
generous  he  was  with  the  poor;  how  he  made 
the  coffin  for  Molly  Brown's  husband  and  didn't 
charge  her  for  it.  Then  I'd  bend  down  and  pull 
a  few  weeds  from  among  the  violets  that  grew 
round  his  monument,  as  I'd  have  dusted  his  coat 
for  him  after  a  long  journey.  And  I  would  walk 
over  and  look  at  John  Elrod's  fine  tomb — John, 
who  didn't  know  whether  he  was  willing  to  be  a 


104  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

fool  for  Christ's  sake  and  who  surpassed  the 
wise  in  the  simplicity  of  his  faith. 

I'd  look  down  at  Abbie  CarmichaPs  grave  as 
I  passed — such  a  dingy  little  grave,  with  such  a 
meek  little  monument  over  it.  We  used  to  think 
she  was  a  great  trial  in  the  Missionary  Society, 
always  wanting  to  turn  it  into  a  spiritual  meeting 
instead  of  attending  to  the  business  and  collecting 
dues.  She  was  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life  from 
morning  till  night.  Now  she  was  satisfied,  with 
her  dust  lying  so  close  to  the  roots  of  the  great 
trees.  People  look  better  when  you  remember 
them  after  they  are  gone,  and  you  do  not  need  to 
contend  with  just  their  mortal  frailties;  and  you 
wonder  why  you  ever  put  so  much  stress  on  them 
anyhow. 

I  always  feel  as  if  I  can  bear  with  the  living 
more  patiently  after  I've  spent  an  hour  in  this 
churchyard  and  see  how  far  removed  the  dead 
are  from  their  transgressions. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  I  have  been  setting  down  the  memories 
and  experiences  of  nearly  half  a  century 
in  this  little  church  our  transgressions 
seem  to  outweigh  our  good  deeds.  This  is  due 
in  part  to  errors  in  the  accounts.  Every  man 
and  every  woman  is  better  than  he  can  live,  ex 
asperated  as  we  all  are  by  the  goodness  and  the 
evil  in  our  fellowmen.  Still,  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
this  church  does  not  survive  through  the  piety 
of  its  members.  We  may  not  commit  the  same 
sins  that  sinners  commit,  but  we  do  accomplish 
much  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  that  helps  the  devil 
with  his  business.  Otherwise  he  would  not  be 
so  successful.  For  I  have  never  seen  a  wicked 
man  yet  who  did  not  hide  behind  the  church 
and  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  its  members  as  an 
excuse  for  his  meanness.  Such  criticisms  do  not 
make  us  any  more  scrupulous  in  the  practice  of 
our  Christian  virtues.  We  go  on  plucking  out 
one  another's  right  eyes  and  cutting  off  one 
another's  spiritual  right  hands  because  they  offend 
us,  without  giving  much  attention  to  the  beam  in 
our  own  eye. 

105 


106  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

But  this  church  does  hold  together.  If  it  should 
be  razed  to  the  ground  by  some  disaster,  we  would 
rebuild  it  at  once,  and  kindle  the  fires  of  our 
faith  upon  its  altar  with  the  same  prayers  and 
feuds  we  have  in  it  now.  What  is  more  to  the 
point,  if  there  was  not  a  single  church,  nor  a 
single  professing  Christian  in  this  town,  the  very 
sinners  would  get  together  and  build  a  house  of 
worship.  I  have  observed  this,  that  the  most 
corrupt  people,  the  coldest  rationalists,  the  athe 
ists  and  agnostics,  always  elect  to  live  in  Christian 
communities.  Our  shortcomings  and  hypocrisies 
do  not  produce  these  unfortunate  and  deformed 
spirits,  but  they  seek  the  light  of  our  illusions, 
the  foolishness  of  our  faith,  as  an  antidote  for 
their  own  darkened  wisdom.  Nobody  ever  heard 
of  a  community  composed  only  of  these  elements 
holding  together,  because  such  people  cannot 
bear  one  another,  not  for  half  the  life  length 
of  one  little  village  church. 

Any  one  sufficiently  foolish  and  hidebound  by 
his  own  limited  faculties  may  prove  to  his  satis 
faction  that  there  is  no  God,  no  life  after  this 
life,  that  man  is  himself  only  the  diseased  proud 
flesh  from  the  dust  from  which  he  springs  and  to 
which  he  returns.  But  when  he  has  thus  squan 
dered  the  illusions  of  faith  there  remains  some 
thing  homeless  in  him  which  he  cannot  domes- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  107 

ticate  in  rationalism  or  learning,  or  even  in 
his  natural  affections.  He  cannot  satisfy  it  with 
worldly  fortunes,  nor  shelter  it  in  his  place  of 
business,  nor  keep  it  at  home  with  him.  He  needs 
a  first-day-of-the-week  refuge  for  this  thing,  what 
ever  it  is,  though  it  may  be  dormant  the  remain 
ing  six  days  under  the  pressure  of  strictly  carnal 
circumstances. 

This  is  why  bad  men  build  churches  that  they 
never  attend.  The  thing  which  they  will  not 
call  the  soul  takes  a  mean,  vicarious  satisfaction 
in  knowing  that  it  has  a  refuge.  This  is  why 
they  give  to  the  poor  whom  they  despise.  It 
is  a  kind  of  sick  charity  which  the  thing  demands  of 
them.  It  all  comes  from  a  sneaking  way  they  have 
of  stealing  from  their  worldliness  to  pay  poor  old 
Peter,  who  is  not  deceived,  and  knows  better  than 
they  do  that  they  have  not  given  that  lot  for  a 
church,  nor  these  alms  for  the  poor,  merely  for  the 
sake  of  policy.  Deep  in  the  heart  of  every  rational 
ist  and  rascal  who  contributes  to  the  support  of 
Christianity  is  the  lying  desire  for  his  own  personal 
absolution.  If  perad venture  it  should  turn  out 
that,  after  all,  God  is — well,  there's  that  church 
he  built,  and  all  those  widows  and  orphans  he 
fed  and  visited  in  their  affliction. 

We  had  a  man  here  like  that  once.  First  he 
was  a  saloonkeeper.  He  made  a  fortune  selling 


108  A  Circuit  Rider9 s  Widow 

whiskey  directly  after  the  war,  when  Berton  was  a 
crossroads  groggery.  When  the  local-option  law 
closed  his  place  he  bought  up  all  the  land  upon 
which  the  town  now  stands,  and  made  money 
selling  it  off  to  the  settlers.  He  donated  to  the 
various  denominations  the  lots  upon  which  all 
our  churches  were  built.  On  the  strength  of 
that  he  became  a  prominent  citizen  and  was 
elected  the  first  mayor  of  Berton.  But  he  always 
claimed,  with  a  kind  of  bull-charging  heartiness, 
that  he  did  these  things  for  the  good  of  the  town. 
He  was  no  coward  looking  to  an  impossible  Provi 
dence  for  what  he  could  do  for  himself.  He;  was 
a  man — no  hypocrisy  about  religion  for  him,  and 
so  forth,  and  so  on.  But  when  he  lost  the  use 
of  both  legs  with  creeping  paralysis,  he  would 
sit  in  his  wheel-chair  and  tell  off  on  his  fingers 
how  much  he'd  given  to  the  churches  and  to 
charity.  He'd  whimper,  and  say  he'd  done  more 
for  the  cause  of  righteousness  than  any  Christian 
in  the  place.  Then  he'd  look  up  like  a  dog  asking 
for  the  crumbs  from  his  master's  table,  beseech 
ingly  at  the  preacher.  Methodist  pastors  are 
usually  the  ones  who  catch  these  old  lame  ducks 
of  the  devil,  and  Brother  Wrenn,  who  was  stationed 
here  then,  used  to  comfort  him  the  best  way  he 
could  at  the  expense  of  the  Scriptures.  We've 
produced  our  share  of  these  short-circuit  souls, 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  109 

but  I  never  knew  one  yet  who  didn't  want  to 
make  at  the  end  a  kind  of  financial  settlement  of 
his  righteousness  with  the  Lord. 

This  same  sense  of  homelessness  and  the  desire 
for  what  I  call  spiritual  domesticity  is  also  the 
reason  why  two  or  three  Presbyterians  will  get 
together  in  a  town  and  build  a  church  which  they 
cannot  afford.  However  able  we  may  be  to 
escape  damnation  in  the  open,  we  are  all  doc- 
trinally  scorched  sons  of  the  Gospel  in  our  secret 
thoughts.  So  a  Presbyterian  does  not  find,  say, 
in  the  Methodist  Church,  comfortable  quarters 
for  his  predestination  notions  of  Almighty  God. 
He  cannot  feel  at  home  among  us  who  slide  up 
and  down  through  eternity  upon  the  free-will 
cable  of  our  faith.  Our  ways  are  not  his  ways. 
He  must  stand  when  he  prays,  while  we  kneel. 
He  wants  to  take  holy  communion  sitting  up  in 
stead  of  kneeling  before  an  altar  to  get  it.  He 
will  and  must  rear  back  coldly  unsympathetic 
when  some  young  shouting  itinerant  recommends 
a  too-easy,  slithering  means  of  grace. 

Souls  have  family  ties  not  less  strong  than  the 
ties  of  blood.  Baptists  will  not  believe  as  com 
fortably  as  we  do  in  their  Heavenly  Father. 
They  must  have  a  church  of  their  own,  with  a 
baptistry  under  the  pulpit  to  make  sure  of  their 
election  to  eternal  Me.  And  while  Methodists 


110  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

are  cheerful  guests,  able  to  pick  up  a  spiritual 
living  from  the  Gospel  preached  in  any  church, 
they  are  really  the  most  clannish  of  all  denomina 
tions.  I  reckon  it  is  because  our  creed  fits  us 
better  than  any  other,  just  as  our  clothes  fit  us 
better  than  those  made  for  other  people. 

But  the  point  I  started  out  to  make  is  this,  that 
our  church  here,  and  every  church,  holds  together 
because  of  the  faith  we  have  in  God,  rather  than 
in  doctrines,  or  in  each  other,  or  even  in  the 
preacher.  We  are  different  from  other  animals 
in  that  we  are  self-conscious,  which  is  always 
a  nervous,  doubtful  sensation.  We  cannot  make 
sure  of  ourselves,  nor  of  our  other  selves,  the  men 
and  women  about  us.  But  we  must  be  certain  of 
something,  built  as  we  all  are  upon  the  sands;  so 
we  look  to  God. 

The  trouble  is,  we  never  can  leave  the  Lord  to 
His  own  nature.  We  reduce  Him  to  ours  and  pray 
to  Him  in  the  terms  of  our  own  perversities  and 
short-sightedness.  We  believe  in  an  eternal,  al 
mighty,  omnipotent,  and  merciful  Creator.  But 
what  mortal  man  can  define  these  attributes?  We 
believe  in  heaven  as  a  blessed  estate,  but  how 
many  times  do  we  thank  our  Father  that  He  still 
permits  us  to  live  in  this  present  world,  only  blessed 
in  the  high  places,  filled  with  snares  and  tribula 
tions?  The  best  answer  I  ever  heard  to  that  was 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  111 

given  by  old  Doctor  Branan,  who  died  here  many 
years  ago. 

He  was  a  local  preacher,  very  tall  and  thin,  very 
old,  with  a  straggling  white  beard  and  the  eyes  of  a 
child.  For  years  he  went  about  this  town  like  an 
elder  angel  with  his  wings  folded  inside,  dragging 
his  hind  legs,  so  to  speak,  because  he  was  too  feeble 
to  straighten  his  knees  or  lift  his  heels  from  the 
ground  when  he  walked.  He  had  outgrown  the 
world  in  which  he  lived.  He  was  so  simply  good 
that  I  reckon  the  devil  despised  him  and  had  long 
since  given  up  trying  to  tempt  him.  He  had  so 
little  darkness  of  the  mortal  mind  left  in  him  that 
some  people  thought  he  was  foolish.  This  is  what 
most  of  us  would  think  about  a  man  so  pure  in 
heart  he  could  neither  see  nor  suspect  us  of  our 
meanness.  The  old  doctor  was  such  a  thirty- 
third  degree  saint  as  that.  They  say  he  was  a 
powerful  and  scarifying  preacher  in  his  day.  He 
was  chiefly  instrumental  in  closing  the  barrooms  in 
Berton.  Then  he  had  himself  elected  justice  of  the 
peace,  and  he  dispensed  peace  with  an  iron  hand, 
becoming  a  terror  to  all  evildoers.  He  put  the  lid 
on  the  town,  then  sat  upon  it  with  the  code  of 
Georgia  in  one  hand  and  the  Bible  in  the  other, 
always  opened  somewhere  in  the  Old  Testa 
ment. 

It  happened  so  gradually  that  he  never  knew 


A  Circuit  Eider's  Widow 

when  the  town  slipped  from  under  him  and  went  on 
about  its  sins  and  business.  By  this  time  his  eyes 
were  holden  to  earthly  things,  and  he  began  to 
shine  alike  upon  the  just  and  the  unjust.  He 
automatically  closed  the  "blind  tiger,"  which 
Melton  kept  in  the  back  of  his  livery  stable,  by 
hanging  out  there  because  he  liked  Melton,  who 
was  a  very  bad  man  in  the  opinion  of  everybody 
else.  He  held  strict  views  about  keeping  the  Sab 
bath.  But  toward  the  end  he  forget  the  names  of 
popular  transgressions,  and  he  might  be  seen  any 
Sunday  afternoon  seated  beneath  an  old  June- 
apple  tree,  watching  a  crowd  of  boys  play  baseball 
in  his  cow  pasture.  When  some  youngster  started 
upon  a  home  run  with  the  odds  against  him,  the  old 
saint  would  fling  his  cane  high  in  the  air,  and  root 
like  a  cracked  violin  to  encourage  the  race.  No 
body  in  this  town  was  mean  enough  to  tell  him  that 
he  was  encouraging  baseball  on  Sunday. 

Finally  one  spring  he  fell  ill.  He  simply  lay 
down  at  the  doors  of  death  and  stayed  there. 
Every  morning  we  heard  that  the  doctor  could 
not  last  through  the  day.  But  he  lasted.  The 
physicians  said  he  had  a  fine  constitution,  but  that 
it  was  only  a  question  of  time,  there  was  no  hope  for 
him.  Brother  Wrenn  began  quietly  to  gather 
material  for  the  funeral  sermon.  He  found  out 
when  the  doctor  was  born,  how  long  he  served  as 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  113 

chaplain  of  the  Confederate  Army,  picked  up 
stories  here  and  there  of  his  courage  upon  the 
battlefields  of  Virginia,  went  through  the  records 
of  Berton  to  show  what  a  brave  citizen  he  had  been 
in  the  lawless  days  of  the  Reconstruction  period, 
collected  anecdotes  of  his  ministry  and  of  his  loving 
kindness  in  his  old  age.  I  reckon  everybody  in  the 
town  helped  prepare  Doctor  Branan's  funeral  ser 
mon.  We  were  so  taken  up  with  it  that  we  forgot 
to  keep  hourly  tab  upon  the  doctor  himself.  Then 
I  met  Doctor  Edd  one  day  coming  from  the  doc 
tor's  house. 

"Do  you  think  the  end  is  near?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  not  so  near  as  it  was  yesterday,  and  a 
good  deal  farther  off  than  it  was  last  week,"  he  an 
swered,  looking  at  me  drolly. 

"Is  he  really  better?"  I  asked,  astonished. 

"He's  quit  taking  nourishment  through  a  quill, 
wants  it  in  a  spoon,  slept  like  a  top  last  night,  pulse 
stronger,  respiration  much  better,"  he  said,  almost 
embarrassed. 

"But  I  thought  all  the  doctors  agreed  that  he 
couldn't  live!"  I  exclaimed,  feeling  somehow  that 
we  had  been  put  in  the  wrong  cribbing  our  mem 
ories  to  help  Brother  Wrenn  with  the  funeral  ser 
mon. 

"By  rights  he  should  have  died  a  week  since, 
Mrs.  Thompson,  but  the  old  fellow  got  a  hunch 


114  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

somehow,  made  up  his  mind,  without  any  knowl 
edge  of  his  fatal  symptoms,  to  live,  and  he's  fixing 
to  pull  through." 

He  did,  too.  He  took  his  time  about  it,  seeming 
to  get  well  one  leg  at  a  time.  Finally  he  crawled 
out  of  bed  with  a  kind  of  pinched-up,  glorified  look 
about  his  face,  as  if  he'd  only  taken  advantage  of 
being  confined  in  the  house  to  brighten  his  expres 
sion. 

On  the  last  Sunday  in  June  he  appeared  at  the 
morning  service,  walking  a  trifle  steadier  than 
usual,  and  took  his  accustomed  seat  in  the  amen 
corner.  Now,  it  has  been  the  custom  in  this 
church  s'nce  the  beginning  for  any  person  who 
wished  to  repent  of  something,  or  who  for  any 
reason  desired  the  "prayers  of  all  Christian 
people,"  to  go  and  kneel  at  the  altar  during  the 
singing  of  the  last  hymn.  Very  few  of  us  ever 
avail  ourselves  of  this  privilege,  preferring  rather  to 
seek  forgiveness  in  our  closet,  so  to  speak,  behind 
the  back  of  our  own  pew,  and  thus  avoid  specula 
tion  on  the  part  of  our  brethren  as  to  what  is  the 
matter.  But  now  and  then  some  one  does  expose 
himself  to  the  spiritual  searchlight  of  the  church  by 
going  forward  in  this  manner.  Whereupon  the 
pastor  always  mentions  "our  dear  brother"  in  the 
closing  prayer,  commending  him  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  heaven — but  very  carefully,  in  loose- 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  115 

fitting  terms,  lest  the  petition  should  give  some  in 
timation  of  the  real  trouble,  which  we  always  sus 
pect  according  to  what  we  know  of  the  victim  who 
has  risked  the  experiment. 

What  was  our  amazement  on  this  Sabbath  when 
we  saw  Doctor  Branan  arise  with  infinite  effort, 
totter  forward,  and  kneel  at  the  altar!  Brother 
Wrenn  prayed  a  very  feeling  and  eloquent  prayer 
for  him,  in  which  many  of  us  recognized  material 
designated  for  the  funeral  sermon.  We  were  con 
fused.  We  could  think  of  no  reason  why  Doctor 
Branan  should  desire  the  prayers  of  all  Christian 
people.  If  there  was  one  without  sin  among  us,  it 
was  this  saintly  man. 

I  was  no  less  mystified  than  the  others,  but  with 
this  difference — I  do  not  enjoy,  as  some  do,  merely 
the  sensation  of  not  knowing  what  I  want  to  know. 
I  can  endure  sickness,  sorrow,  affliction,  and  even 
death  with  decent  courage,  I  hope,  but  I  cannot 
endure  my  own  curiosity.  It  consumes  me  like  a 
fire.  I  can't  sleep,  and  I  cannot  even  remain  awake 
with  comfort;  so  I  humour  myself  in  this,  as  we 
humour  a  good  child  now  and  then  with  candy. 

The  next  day  I  went  to  call  on  Doctor  Branan, 
who  lived  with  his  widowed  daughter.  He  was 
glad  to  see  me.  Yes,  he  was  glad  to  be  well  again, 
he  told  me.  And  he  was  glad  to  be  at  church 
yesterday.  And  he  was  glad  so  many  other  people 


116  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

were  out,  too.  He  was  glad  to  have  lived  all  his 
life  in  a  Christian  community.  Then  he  looked 
through  the  window  at  the  pleasant  green  and 
blooming  world,  and  said  he  thought  this  would  be 
a  good  crop  year,  of  which  he  was  very  glad. 

I  agreed  with  him  and  endured  as  much  of  his 
gladness  as  I  could,  doing  my  best  all  the  time  to 
draw  him  in  a  certain  direction.  Finally  I  lost 
patience,  seeing  that  he  was  determined  to  rejoice 
straight  ahead  as  long  as  I  would  listen. 

"Doctor,"  I  began  abruptly,  "I  want  to  ask  you 
a  question." 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  looking  round  at  me  in 
mild  sweetness. 

"You  know  people  in  our  church  who  desire 
prayers  for  their  sins,  or  the  sins  of  any  one  near 
and  dear  to  them,  sometimes  go  to  the  altar  at  the 
close  of  the  service." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"But,  yesterday,  why  did  you  go?  What  could 
you  have  done  to  need  so  public  a  confession " 

"I  didn't  go  for  that,  my  daughter,"  he  answered 
quickly. 

"For  what,  then?"  I  insisted. 

"You  see  I  have  been  sick — so  near  to  death  that 
almost  I  saw  the  gates  of  one  pearl.  I  was  in  great 
danger  of  the  angels,  you  understand." 

I  did  not  understand,  but  I  nodded  my  head. 


A  Circuit  Rider  s  Widow  117 

"Well,  when  I  felt,  rather  than  saw,  my  family 
gathered  round  the  bed,  I  kept  my  eyes  closed  for 
fear  I  should  see — you  know — beyond  the  things  of 
time  and  sense.  And  I  made  a  vow  to  God  that  if 
He  would  let  me  live  I'd  make  a  public  thanksgiv 
ing  at  the  altar  for  His  mercies." 

"But,  Doctor,  why  did  you  want  to  live,  you 
who  have  lived  so  well  and  who  must  be  so  sure  of 
eternal  life?"  I  exclaimed. 

"That's  it,  my  daughter!"  he  exclaimed,  reach 
ing  out  a  tremulous  hand  in  strange  opposition. 
"This  life  to  which  I  am  so  long  accustomed  is 
comfortably  narrow.  I  am  old  and  tired.  I 
shrink  from  the  heights  and  depths  of  eternal  life. 
It  appals  me.  I  have  always  preached  it  and 
prayed  for  it.  But  when  I  stood  upon  the  thresh 
old  of  it  I  couldn't  bear  it,  leaving  all  the  familiar 
things — the  grass,  the  kind  green  leaves,  the  spar 
rows  in  my  hedge,  that  gate  out  there  through 
which  I  have  come  and  gone  for  so  many  years, 
this  house  so  near  and  kin  to  me  that  I  can  find  my 
way  through  it  on  the  darkest  night,  the  children 
on  these  streets,  the  men  and  women  I  have  known 
so  long.  At  my  time  of  life  I  could  not  yield  the 
companionship  of  so  much  that  I  know  for  the 
great  and  terrible  things  unknown  to  me  in  their 
awful  splendour." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  more 


118  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

to  himself  than  to  me :  "  Every  man  must  believe  in 
immortality  or  perish.  But  every  man  who  loves 
life  must  fear  it,  if  he  thinks  what  it  means.  I 
reckon  I'll  get  used  to  it  when  I  must,  but  not  until 
then."  He  looked  at  me,  smiling  whimsically. 

He  died  before  the  end  of  that  summer.  And 
I  have  no  doubt  he  entered  upon  his  duties  of  a 
citizen  of  Eternity  with  the  same  sweetness  and 
courage  that  distinguished  him  here. 

I  never  worry  over  what  I'll  do  or  how  I  shall 
feel  in  the  next  world.  It  is  written  that  the 
Lord  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb.  If  He 
is  so  mindful  of  a  sheep  He  will  surely  know  how 
to  take  care  of  an  old  woman  who  has  just  lost 
her  body  and  her  mortal  bearings.  However,  we 
never  have  a  death  in  this  town  that  the  bereaved 
ones  do  not  begin  to  question  the  providence  of 
God  to  find  out  why  He  took  this  particular  son 
or  husband  or  father.  And  they  never  do  find 
out.  I  do  not  admire  Job.  He  must  have  been 
the  Thomas  Carlyle  of  the  Old  Testament,  with 
remarkable  literary  gifts,  but  so  cantankerous  and 
mean  that  I've  always  wondered  what  his  boasted 
integrity  could  have  been.  But  he  did  know  how 
to  behave  with  dignity  when  his  sons  and  daughters 
perished.  "The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath 
taken  away;  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord." 
That  is  as  good  a  way  as  any  of  disposing  of  the 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  119 

whole  matter,  though  it  places  more  responsibility 
upon  Him  than  the  facts  warrant  sometimes  when 
the  deceased  has  outraged  every  law  of  health, 
as  the  dead  usually  do  before  they  die. 

And  after  the  bereaved  family  pass  through 
this  first  acute  stage  of  grief,  when  all  their  neigh 
bours  and  friends  have  persecuted  them  into  a 
state  of  resignation  with  arguments  about  why 
it  was  really  best  for  the  departed  one  to  go  just 
as  he  did  go,  they  begin  their  spiritual  convales 
cence  by  raising  the  second  question:  "Shall  we 
know  each  other  there?  "  "  Will  my  mother  recog 
nize  me  in  paradise?" 

Maybe  the  mother  in  question  was  a  high- 
tempered  old  lady  who  had  nagged  her  children 
as  long  as  she  lived  and  never  gave  them  a  peaceful 
moment  in  her  presence.  But  that  makes  no 
difference.  They  are  worried  for  fear  when  they 
come  through  the  big  gates  at  sundown  they  will 
not  hear  her  shrill  voice  complaining:  "Johnny, 
where  have  you  been  all  this  time,  with  the  chores 
not  done,  and  me  having  to  bring  in  the  wood  and 
kindle  the  fire  in  the  stove?"  Or,  "Come  here 
this  minute,  and  let  me  feel  of  your  head.  I  be 
lieve  you've  been  in  that  swimming  hole  again, 
catching  your  death  of  cold!  If  your  hair's  wet 
I'll  punish  you  as  sure  as  I  live!"  And  so  on, 
and  so  forth. 


120  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

Our  pastor  may  preach  the  most  beautiful 
funeral  sermon  over  this  departed  mother.  He 
may  draw  the  finest  pictures  of  eternal  life  and 
paint  her  with  a  crown  upon  her  poor  old  head  and 
a  harp  in  her  poor  old  hands.  But  in  his  heart 
of  hearts  her  son  John  finds  no  comfort  in  these 
glories,  because  nobody  can  promise  him  that 
she  will  know  him,  or  that  he  will  know  her  in 
the  kingdom  of  heaven.  I  say  these  questions 
do  not  trouble  me  any  more  than  the  question 
whether  the  angels  have  their  wings  put  on  behind 
or  in  front.  But  you  cannot  exercise  your  spiritual 
imagination  by  discussing  them,  without  risking 
the  charge  of  heresy  by  somebody  who  has  a 
penguin  soul  and  no  imagination  at  all. 

One  cold  day  in  January  I  was  out  collecting 
dues  for  our  missionary  society.  We  had  not 
been  doing  very  well  since  I  prayed  for  Charlotte 
Warren  at  the  meeting  of  the  Parsonage  -Aid 
Society.  Some  of  the  women  took  up  for  her, 
and  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  I  called  on  the 
Lord  to  deal  harshly  by  her,  which  is  the  truth. 
But  if  ever  a  woman  needed  a  spiritual  chastise 
ment  that  woman  was  Charlotte.  I  knew  I  had 
done  right  and  had  prayed  for  her  properly,  but 
many  a  time  I  have  found  that  performing  the 
harsher  duties  of  my  Christian  life  hurts  my  con 
science  quite 'as  much  as  any  sin  I  dare  commit. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

This,  I  believe,  is  the  reason  so  many  church 
members  avoid  their  sterner  obligations  to  each 
other.  It  is  much  safer  in  this  present  world  to 
leave  a  brother  to  backslide  than  to  tell  him  to 
his  face  that  he  is  becoming  a  liar,  a  thief,  and 
a  drunkard.  And  it's  five  times  more  prudent  to 
be  silent  when  your  sister  in  the  church  is  develop 
ing  the  character  of  a  termagant  saint,  than  to 
tell  the  truth  and  let  the  people  as  well  as  the  Lord 
know  what  she  is  doing. 

So  I  was  very  low  in  my  mind  that  day  as  I 
went  from  house  to  house,  collecting  ten  cents 
here  and  a  quarter  there,  trying  to  smoothe  the 
rumpled  feathers  of  the  opposition  and  to  persuade 
everybody  to  come  to  the  next  meeting  of  the 
society.  Maybe  my  depression  was  partly  due  to 
a  bad  cold. 

When  I  reached  Sally  Parks'  gate  I  saw  her 
bobbing  up  and  down  in  her  flower  pit,  which  is 
on  the  sunny  side  of  the  yard.  I  have  seen  many 
a  woman  who  looked  indigenous  among  blooming 
plants;  but  Sally  is  not  one  of  them.  She  always 
gives  the  impression  of  an  outraged  mother  when 
she  is  in  that  pit.  She  snatches  off  the  dead  leaves 
of  her  geraniums  as  if  they  ought  to  know  better 
than  to  wear  stockings  with  holes  in  them.  She 
thrusts  her  fingers  in  the  soil  as  if  she  suspected 
her  snapdragons  of  going  to  bed  the  night  before 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

with  cold  feet.  She  turns  up  the  leaves  of  her 
rose  cuttings,  narrows  her  eyes,  primps  her  mouth, 
and  searches  for  mildew  as  if  she  was  looking  at 
little  Jimmy's  ears  to  make  sure  they  were  clean. 
Altogether,  she  is  very  busy  and  very  fault-finding 
with  them,  but  she  can  stick  the  stem  of  any 
flower  in  the  ground  with  so  much  authority  that 
the  thing  will  not  dare  to  die,  but  grows  and  blooms 
dutifully  as  a  scholar  learning  to  read. 

On  this  particular  morning  she  appeared  to  be 
in  a  strangely  placid  mood  when  I  greeted  her 
from  the  door  of  the  pit. 

"Good  morning,  Sally!  Nothing  hurt  by  the 
frost,  I  hope.  Last  night  was  very  cold,"  I 
said. 

"Oh,  good  morning,  Sister  Thompson,"  she 
exclaimed  cheerfully,  facing  about  from  something 
she  was  doing. 

"No,  they  are  all  right.  I  was  just  counting 
the  buds  on  this  Cape  jasmine  bush.  They'll 
be  in  bloom  by  the  time  we  need  them.  There 
are  nine — enough  to  make  a  cross,  I  think." 

"A  cross!  What  for?"  I  exclaimed,  coming 
down  into  the  pit  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the  big 
green  bush  which  she  keeps  in  a  tub. 

"Haven't  you  heard?  Taggy  Lipton's  mother 
is  very  low.  They  don't  think  she'll  live  but  a 
day  or  two  longer.  I  always  set  my  Cape  jasmine 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  123 

in  here  during  the  winter  to  make  sure  of  having 
proper  flowers  for  funerals,  you  know." 

I  didn't  say  anything,  merely  sat  down  weakly 
upon  the  bottom  step  with  the  cold  chills  running 
up  and  down  my  back.  Every  year  in  March  I 
come  down  with  a  spell  of  grippe  which  always 
threatens  to  go  into  pneumonia.  I  could  see 
Sally  running  in  to  find  out  how  bad  off  I  was, 
then  hurrying  home  to  see  if  she  had  enough 
gardenias  to  make  a  cross  for  my  casket  in  case 
the  worst  happened.  How  many  times,  I  won 
dered,  had  she  done  this! 

"Do  you  remember  the  winter  Lula  Jackson 
died?"  she  went  on,  not  noticing  the  state  I  was 
in.  "  There  wasn't  a  single  blossom  in  Berton. 
The  girls  in  her  Sunday-school  class  got  together 
to  do  something  about  it.  They  took  all  the 
artificial  flowers  off  their  summer  hats,  made 
anchors  and  crosses  of  them  with  cedar  founda 
tions.  I'll  never  forget  how  the  casket  looked. 
We  all  recognized  the  wreath  of  wild  roses  on  it 
that  Fedora  Branan  wore  on  her  white  leghorn 
for  two  seasons.  We  knew  the  design  of  lilacs 
came  off  of  Emily  Peters'  straw.  We'd  seen  the 
forget-me-nots  many  times  on  the  little  Peters 
girl's  bonnet.  Well,  I  made  up  my  mind  it  should 
never  happen  again,  that  I'd  grow  natural  flowers 
for  the  dead  if  it  took  half  my  time  to  attend  to 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

'em.  And  I've  done  it.  I've  sent  a  wreath  or 
cross  of  these  Cape  jasmines  to  every  funeral 
we've  had  here  since,  even  if  it  was  a  cold-water 
Baptist  that  was  to  be  laid  out." 

It's  wrong  to  judge  people.  Every  time  you  do 
it  and  hand  in  your  verdict,  they  do  something 
that  reverses  your  decision.  Suddenly  I  thought 
differently  about  Sally.  Seeing  her  perched  up 
beside  her  funeral  flower  bush,  I  thought  how 
kind  she'd  been  to  think  of  such  a  thing.  I  could 
see  her  drifting  into  paradise  very  old  and  thin, 
her  hair  skinned  back  the  way  she  wears  it,  her 
brow  wrinkled  above  her  popped  eyes,  her  mouth 
primped  from  the  long  struggle  she's  had  working 
and  digging  to  make  ends  meet  and  flowers  grow, 
but  wearing  over  her  dingy  mourning — for  she's 
always  in  black  for  somebody — all  the  garlands 
and  wreaths  she's  woven  these  many  years  for  the 
other  dead,  perfuming  the  whole  place  with  her 
gardenia  deeds  of  charity.  I  could  see  the  shining 
hosts  take  a  long  breath  of  that  sweetness.  Then 
they'll  look  round,  see  just  Sally  Parks,  very  much 
confused  about  which  way  to  go,  where  to  take 
off  her  things,  and  with  her  red  elbows  sticking 
out  through  the  blossoms!  I  do  not  say  that 
they  will  recognize  her  as  Sally,  she  having  been 
raised  a  spiritual  body,  though  I've  sometimes 
wondered  what  manner  of  incorruption  the  Lord 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

prepares  for  a  homely  old  turkey-legged  woman 
like  her.  But  they  will  know  what  Sally  will  not 
understand  herself,  that  she's  clothed  in  the  kind 
ness  of  her  own  deeds. 

Now  if  I'd  stopped  with  that  vision  of  her  re 
deemed  in  all  her  jasmine  glory,  if  I'd  collected 
her  dues  then  and  there  for  the  missionary  society 
and  gone  on  about  my  business,  as  I  should  have 
done,  that  would  have  saved  me  much  trouble 
and  this  church  a  scandal  connected  with  one 
of  its  oldest  members.  But  when  my  mind  starts 
outward  and  upward  it's  hard  for  me  to  get  it 
down  without  some  kind  of  spiritual  accident. 

"Did  you  ever  think  of  this,  Sally,"  I  said  sud 
denly,  "that  if  we  are  immortal  we  always  have 
been  immortal?" 

"Don't  tell  me  you  believe  in  the  transmigration 
of  souls,  Mary  Thompson!"  she  cried,  staring  at 
me  in  horror. 

"I  don't,  and  don't  you  ever  say  I  do!"  I  re 
torted  indignantly. 

"Well,  then,  what  do  you  think  you  were  before 
you  became  what  you  are?  "  she  asked  suspiciously. 

I  knew  what  was  in  her  mind.  Old  Dan  Mit 
chell,  who  came  from  no  one  knew  where,  had 
dropped  into  Berton  and  set  up  a  shoe  shop.  Then 
he  organized  what  he  called  the  Society  for 
Psychic  Research,  and  the  people  who  belonged 


126  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

to  it  didn't  belong  to  any  church.  But  they 
held  meetings  and  professed  to  receive  communi 
cations  from  departed  spirits. 

"I've  had  my  doubts  about  a  good  many  things, 
Sally,"  I  answered,  determined  to  avoid  the  snare 
of  spiritualism,  "but  my  faith  has  never  wavered 
about  this  for  a  moment.  I  know  that  I've  always 
been  just  myself.  I  know  I've  never  been  a  cat  or 
a  bessie-bug  or  a  protoplasm.  I  started  out  a 
woman,  with  the  earlier  stars.  I  feel  that  since  the 
beginning  I've  travelled  as  steady  as  any  of  them 
toward  this  place,  this  church,  and  all  the  duties 
that  make  up  the  rotary  motions  and  diurnal  ex 
istence  of  a  Christian  woman." 

She  stared  at  me  as  if  she  thought  I  was  talking 
in  my  sleep. 

"Sometimes,"  I  went  on,  merely  cavorting  in 
my  spirit,  "I  almost  remember  playing  with  Eve's 
little  girls,  I  can  see  'em  so  plain  in  their  vegetable 
pinafores  and  petticoats,  kicking  up  the  dust. 
Maybe  I  was  standing  a  long  way  off  in  the  sand 
with  a  veil  over  my  face,  watching  for  Isaac  when 
he  went  to  meet  Rebekah  at  the  well.  My  folks 
may  have  wandered  off  and  married  with  for 
eigners,  and  for  all  I  know  I  may  have  been  the 
grandmother  of  the  Sphinx  or  one  of  the  Cleopatra 
girls " 

"A  Christian  woman,"  interrupted  Sally  fiercely, 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  127 

"  saying  such  things,  thinking  herself  in  and  out  of 
heathen  bodies — and  at  your  age,  Mary!" 

"It's  my  age  that  makes  me  do  it,"  I  insisted 
whimsically.  "Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I'd  been 
every  woman,  good  and  bad.  You  ought  to  be 
thankful  I  don't  recall  being  one  of  those  shameless 
jades  in  the  church  choir  at  Corinth  in  Paul's  day. 
I've  lived  a  long  time.  I've  been  so  far." 

"When  did  you  go?  I  never  heard  of  your 
travels  before!"  she  sniffed. 

"How  many  times  have  you  read  your  Bible 
through,  Sally?" 

"Every  three  years  since  I  joined  the  church. 
Why?"  * 

"  Didn't  you  ever  see  the  tents  of  Abraham  in  the 
land  of  Uz?" 

"No,  I  never  did!  And  I'll  have  you  know  I 
don't  feel  kin  to  Cleopatra,  nor " 

"Can't  you  remember  the  day  Job's  sons  and 
daughters  were  drinking  and  feasting  when  the 
house  caught  fire  and  burned  them  up,  what  a  sight 
that  was — the  flames  leaping  between  the  earth 
and  sky,  the  flocks  flying,  the  shepherds  shouting, 
the  messengers  running  to  tell  Job  what  had  hap 
pened,  and " 

"Look  here,  Mary " 

"And  did  you  never  feel  that  you  were  one  of  the 
guests  at  the  wedding  in  Galilee  when  Jesus  came 


128  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

in  unexpectedly  and  changed  the  water  to  wine,  and 
how  amazed  we  all  were?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  It 
sounds  flighty  and  dangerous — Cleopatra  and  all 
that!  I  hope  I'm  a  Christian  woman.  I  believe 
as  much  as  you  do  in  eternal  life  after  death,  but 
nobody  can  accuse  me  to  my  face  of  being  the 
missing  link  in  my  own  immortality  without  my 
resenting  it!" 

I  had  to  laugh  at  the  idea  of  her  being  her  own 
missing  link.  But  I  paid  dearly  for  that  trip 
through  the  holy  land  of  my  imagination,  es 
pecially  the  part  which  took  me  through  Egypt. 

Sally  reported  over  Berton  that  Mary  Thomp 
son  believed  in  the  transmigration  of  souls,  and 
laid  claims  to  being  one  of  the  Cleopatra  girls, 
without  telling  which  one.  I  paid  no  attention, 
being  an  old  woman  who  had  never  acted  in  a 
manner  to  suggest  any  strong  trait  of  the  Cleo 
patra  family.  But  when  my  own  neighbours  be 
gan  to  stare  at  me  in  church,  as  if  I  were  a  doubt 
ful  stranger  they'd  entertained  unawares,  some 
thing  in  me  began  to  rise  which  had  no  resemblance 
to  piety. 

One  day  old  Dan  Mitchell  passed  me  on  the 
street,  and  he  bowed  to  me  familiarly  with  a  kind 
of  high  sign  in  his  eye,  as  if  we  held  views  in  com 
mon,  though  I  despised  him  and  all  his  works. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  129 

But  Sally,  who  was  in  and  out  of  my  house  nearly 
as  often  as  the  cat,  discontinued  her  visits.  No 
matter  where  I  caught  sight  of  her,  she  was  al 
ways  going  in  the  opposite  direction. 

At  the  next  meeting  of  the  Woman's  Missionary 
Society  I  had  a  whole  bench  to  myself,  until  Molly 
Brown  came  in  and  sat  beside  me,  which  showed 
how  bad  off  I  was,  because  Molly  always  cleaves 
closest  to  those  in  affliction.  Then  Charlotte 
Warren,  who  was  president,  called  the  meeting  to 
order.  She  said  she  would  take  this  occasion  to 
do  her  duty,  however  painful  it  might  be.  She 
explained  that  since  we  were  to  elect  officers  for  the 
coming  year,  she  felt  obliged  to  suggest  some  one 
else  be  appointed  treasurer,  that  it  was  injurious  to 
the  cause  for  a  person  holding  heathen  views  con 
cerning  immortality  to  have  an  office  in  the 
society. 

Sally  Parks  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes  and  wept.  Emily  Peters  tried  to  look  as  if 
she  had  never  heard  of  any  views  about  im 
mortality.  Taggy  Lipton  stared  imploringly  at 
me,  as  much  as  to  say  she  was  willing  to  defend  me 
to  the  last  ditch  if  I'd  take  back  what  I'd  said  about 
being  one  of  the  Cleopatra  girls.  The  other  women 
glanced,  first  at  me,  then  at  Charlotte,  frankly 
curious. 

I  acted  the  part  of  a  face-slapped  Christian  for 


130  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

once  in  my  life.  But  when  Charlotte  called  for  the 
treasurer's  report  I  read  it — in  full.  After  showing 
how  few  had  paid  their  dues,  I  mentioned  by  name 
those  who  had  not  paid.  I  told  how  often  in  all 
weathers  I  had  made  a  house-to-house  canvass, 
trying  to  collect  what  they  owed.  I  gave  the  ex 
cuses  they  had  given  me.  Sally  Parks  was  behind 
six  months  with  the  regular  assessment.  Char 
lotte  had  paid  nothing  on  the  "special,"  which  is 
always  about  four  times  as  much  as  the  regular 
dues.  In  all,  the  various  members  owed  sixty- 
eight  dollars. 

"These  debts  are  allowed  in  law,"  I  said,  closing 
the  book  and  giving  them  a  long  look  over  the  top 
of  my  spectacles.  "I  must  and  will  balance  my 
books  as  treasurer  before  the  election  of  officers  at 
the  next  meeting  of  this  society.  I  shall,  therefore, 
turn  over  these  accounts  to  an  attorney  for  collec 
tion  at  once." 

Then  I  sat  down  and  patted  my  foot.  It  is  a 
question  in  my  mind  whether  anybody  can  be 
treasurer  of  a  woman's  missionary  society  and  re 
tain  all  her  Christian  virtues.  If,  however,  you 
lose  some  of  them  in  the  scrimmage,  you  may  al 
ways  regain  them  by  proper  repentance.  But  once 
you  submit  to  the  tyranny  of  an  overbearing 
woman  like  Charlotte  Warren,  even  your  virtues 
profit  you  nothing  in  peace. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  131 

The  last  one  of  them  paid  their  dues  the  follow 
ing  day.  Charlotte  sent  a  naked  check  for  what 
she  owed  without  a  word  of  comment.  But  I 
was  not  at  the  end  of  my  troubles.  By  this 
time  the  rumour  of  my  heathen  views  had  reached 
the  pastor's  ears.  This  was  Brother  Hale,  an  old 
man  who  preached  against  something  all  the  time. 
If  it  was  not  theatres  and  dancing,  it  was  the  Bap 
tist  doctrine  of  election,  or  the  Presbyterian's 
shorter  catechism. 

On  this  Sunday  morning  he  read  a  good  deal 
from  Ezekiel  about  familiar  spirits  and  divination, 
which  showed  how  strongly  Ezekiel  felt  about  the 
competition  between  jugglers  and  prophets  in  his 
day.  Then  Brother  Hale  preached  on  this:  "Be 
ware  of  sorcerers."  He  was  furious  with  sorcerers, 
as  if  there  was  one  present  who  was  crowding  him 
and  all  Christian  people  out  of  their  spiritual 
rights.  He  quoted  from  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles, 
to  prove  how  the  practice  of  sorcery  leads  to 
strangely  evil  incantations  of  the  soul  and  destroys 
the  moral  sense. 

"Bretheren,  bretheren!"  he  shouted,  "this  is  no 
capsule  doctrine  I'm  giving  you!  It's  the  naked 
quinine!  If  there  be  any  among  us  given  over  to 
this  iniquity,  we  must  purge  this  church  of  them  or 
bring  down  upon  us  the  condemnation  of  a  right 
eous  God." 


132  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

He  might  have  been  warning  us  against  the 
Society  for  Psychic  Research,  but  my  own  mouth 
tasted  bitter  and  my  feelings  were  outraged.  If  I 
had  stood  up  in  an  experience  meeting  and  con 
fessed  to  half  a  dozen  sins,  nothing  would  have  been 
said  about  that.  Nobody  would  have  thought  less 
of  me.  We  all  told  things  of  ourselves  at  such 
times  that  should  have  debarred  us  from  society, 
but  that  only  knit  us  closer  together  in  the  bonds  of 
sympathy.  But  I  was  being  held  up  to  con 
demnation  before  the  church  because  I'd  made  use 
of  a  poetic  figure  of  speech. 

I  was  conscious  of  covert,  accusing  glances  from 
various  sources  in  the  congregation  as  Brother 
Hale  went  on.  Once  Lily  Triggs  flirted  round  and 
looked  me  squarely  in  the  face,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"Thou  art  the  woman!"  Then  she  flirted  back 
and  gave  her  attention  with  a  pious  air  to  the 
preacher.  If  she  had  spoken  aloud  she  could  not 
have  made  clearer  what  was  in  her  mind — namely, 
that  she  might  have  her  faults,  she  did  not  pretend 
as  some  people  whom  she  knew  did,  but  no  one 
could  accuse  her  of  having  a  vagabond  soul 
mixed  up  in  heathen  scandals! 

If  any  one  thinks  this  account  of  my  experience 
is  exaggerated,  let  them  recall  the  things  for  which 
men  and  women  have  been  burned  at  the  stake,  not 
because  they  were  bad  but  because  of  a  difference 


A  Circuit  Rider  s  Widow  133 

of  opinion  about  a  doctrine  or  a  creed.  I  have 
known  a  preacher,  a  good  man  who  believed 
firmly  in  the  cardinal  doctrines  of  the  Methodist 
Church,  to  be  tried  for  heresy  because  he  made 
frank  use  of  the  term  evolution  in  his  sermons.  I 
do  not  like  that  word  myself.  It  looks  low  down  in 
front  and  high  up  behind,  as  if  it  had  its  nose  in  the 
dirt  and  its  heels  in  the  air.  Still,  only  bigotry 
could  have  driven  a  Christian  minister  out  of  the 
church  who  used  it.  A  few  years  ago  a  presiding 
elder  in  our  Annual  Conference  brought  charges 
against  a  preacher  and  had  him  "located,"  because 
the  unfortunate  man  stubbed  his  spiritual  toe 
against  the  doctrine  of  infant  baptism,  and  balked 
at  performing  this  rite  for  the  babies  born  in  his 
circuit.  I'm  a  firm  believer  in  infant  baptism. 
It  never  hurts  the  child,  and  it  sometimes  helps  the 
parents,  who  really  take  the  vows,  to  do  better 
by  their  baby.  But  I  said  then,  and  I  still  be 
lieve,  it  was  a  mean,  unchristian  act  to  turn  that 
preacher  out  of  the  itinerancy  because  he  didn't 
feel  called  to  baptize  babies.  There  are  as  many 
martyrs  now  in  the  churches  as  there  ever  were. 
The  only  difference  is,  we  do  not  put  them  out  of 
their  pain  so  quickly  by  burning  them. 

However,  I  lack  the  elements  of  martyrdom. 
Such  meekness  as  I  have  is  of  a  militant  char 
acter.  I  was  sitting  before  the  fire  that  after- 


134  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

noon,  too  angry  to  read  my  Bible,  which  is  a 
thing  I  do  every  Sunday  afternoon,  when  there 
was  a  knock  at  the  door  and  Brother  Hale  walked 
in. 

We  were  both  on  our  guard.  He  said  he 
thought  it  was  going  to  snow.  I  said  I  didn't 
care  if  it  did.  What  he  meant  was:  "This  is  a 
very  sad  day  for  us  all,  Sister  Thompson."  What 
I  meant  was:  "You  can't  put  off  the  bad  weather 
of  your  spirit  on  me,  Brother  Hale.  I've  enough 
weather  of  my  own!" 

He  sighed.  He  warmed  first  one  foot,  then 
the  other.  He  worked  his  mouth  in  his  beard 
and  groaned.  I  just  waited  with  my  hands 
folded  and  my  eyes  fixed  coldly  upon  him. 

"Sister  Thompson,"  he  began  at  last  in  a  sep 
ulchral  voice,  "I  have  always  regarded  you  as  a 
Christian  woman " 

"I  am,  up  to  a  certain  point,  Brother  Hale," 
I  answered  quickly;  "after  that  I'm  just  a  natural 
woman." 

"Ah,  yes.  It's  hard  to  overcome  the  Old 
Adam " 

"I  can  manage  any  Old  Adam  I  know.  It's 
the  evil  of  the  Eves  in  this  situation  that  troubles 
me,"  I  returned  darkly. 

"Then  you  know  there's  been  a  good  deal  of 
talk?" 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  135 

"Yes,  and  I  know  how  it  started,  which  you 
should  have  found  out  before  you  preached  that 
sermon  on  sorcerers  this  morning,"  I  returned 
without  beating  about  the  bush. 

"Well,  how  did  such  a  report  start  if  there  was 
no  truth  in  it?"  he  demanded. 

"I  didn't  say  there  was  no  truth  in  it,"  I  began. 

"Then  you  admit  it!" 

"No,  I  don't  admit  anything,"  casting  about 
for  some  way  to  explain  what  I  meant. 

I  tried  to  tell  him  about  my  visit  to  Sally,  and 
the  train  of  thought  which  had  led  me  to  speculate 
so  heavily  in  immortality.  But  it  is  not  easy  to 
interpret  a  winged  mood  to  a  man  who  has  literal- 
minded  damnation  ideas.  As  I  repeated  what  I 
said  to  Sally  about  my  ancient  immortality  and 
the  fancy  I  had  of  seeing  myself  like  the  shades 
of  all  women  coming  and  going  through  time,  he 
looked  even  more  horrified  than  Sally  did.  Tears 
of  rage  and  mortification  blinded  me.  I  could 
not  go  on. 

"You  didn't  claim  to  have  been  one  of  the 
Cleopatra  girls?"  he  asked  coolly. 

"Don't  you  mention  that  to  me  again,  Brother 
Hale,"  I  evaded,  seeing  I  could  not  make  him 
understand. 

"But  this  is  a  serious  matter,  Sister  Thompson; 
it  involves  the  difference  between  an  evil  spiritu- 


136  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

ality  and  a  pure  spiritual  life.  I  understood  that 
in  your  conversation  with  Sister  Parks  you  claimed 
to  have  been  one  of  the  Cleopatra  girls,  and " 

"There  was  only  one  of  them,  so  far  as  I  know," 
I  interrupted.  "Does  anybody  who  knows  me 
think  I  ever  lived  or  looked  like  her?  It's  a 
shame  upon  you  all  that  a  woman  who  has  been 
a  consistent  member  of  this  church  through  all 
her  inconsistencies  can't  exercise  her  spiritual 
imagination  without  being  suspected  of  dark 
practices  and  relations  to  a  misguided  heathen 
female  who's  been  dead  several  thousand  years!'' 

"It  was  a  most  unfortunate  occurrence,  Sister 
Thompson,  and  has  led  to  a  scandal  in  the  church," 
he  said,  as  if  he  still  blamed  me. 

But  I  was  in  no  mood  to  be  blamed. 

"Yes,  and  do  you  know  why?  It's  because  of 
the  evil  mind  in  some  good  people,  the  desire 
they  have  for  excitement.  Instead  of  making 
moonshine  whiskey  they  distill  scandals  at  the 
expense  of  helpless  people.  And  you,  who  would 
scorn  to  drink  the  one,  will  feed  upon  the  other! 
On  the  other  hand,"  I  said,  talking  very  fast 
because  I  saw  that  he  wished  to  interrupt  me, 
"I've  known  you  to  listen  to  something  said 
about  women  for  which  the  speaker  should  have 
been  punished,  without  resenting  that  at  all!" 

"I  never  did!"  he  exclaimed  indignantly. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widoiv  137 

"Brother  Hale,  you  were  present  at  the  last 
Annual  Conference,  were  you  not?  " 

"Certainly,  but- 

"Four  hundred  of  your  preachers  and  about 
half  as  many  women  were  sitting  upon  the  floor 
of  the  Conference  when  the  bishop,  enumerating 
the  things  to  be  thankful  for,  wound  up  with  this : 
'And  I  suppose  there  is  not  a  man  in  this  house 
who  does  not  thank  God  that  he  was  not  born  a 
woman!'  And  he  the  son  of  a  woman!  And  the 
house  filled  with  women  who'd  spent  their  lives 
working  for  him  and  the  church,  in  spite  of  their 
efforts  to  serve  just  the  Almighty!" 

"But,  Sister  Thompson " 

"Why,  I  ask  you,  should  anybody,  man  or 
woman,  thank  God  for  his  or  her  gender?  Is 
there  any  advantage  before  Him  in  being  born  a 
male?  If  you  ask  me,  Brother  Hale,  I  believe 
there's  a  plus  mark  put  after  every  woman's 
name  in  the  Book  of  Life!  We  have  not  fought 
the  wars,  or  built  the  cities,  or  carried  on  the 
Dives  business  of  amassing  wealth  in  this  present 
world;  but  we  do  keep  the  faith.  WTiat  would 
happen  if  all  the  women  in  all  the  churches  dropped 
out  and  went  into  business  with  the  brethren? 
The  pastors  might  still  get  their  salaries,  but 
your  missionary  collections  would  drop  two-thirds; 
your  Sunday-schools  would  dissolve  into  dancing 


138  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

classes;  the  young  people  would  leave  the  church. 
As  for  revivals,  you  wouldn't  have  any,  and  not 
a  single  conversion." 

"Sister  Thompson,"  he  put  in  while  I  paused 
for  breath,  "what  the  bishop  said  is  not  the  point 
at  issue " 

"No,"  I  interrupted;  "y°u  could  sit  there  and 
hear  something  which  humiliated  every  woman 
in  the  house,  without  protesting  against  the 
loutish  pride  he  showed  in  just  his  sex,  but  you 
can  come  over  here  to  chasten  an  old  woman  who 
has  upheld  the  hands  of  preachers  and  served  the 
church  faithfully  for  forty  years,  because  I  had  a 
fancy  for  gadding  in  the  spirit  through  the  land 
of  Uz  with  Job  and  the  prophets,"  I  sobbed, 
whisking  the  tears  angrily  from  my  eyes. 

"You  went  out  of  the  land  of  Uz,  Sister  Thomp 
son,  and  claimed  to  have  been  one  of  the  Cleo " 

"Don't  mention  that  woman's  name  to  me 
again!"  I  exclaimed  fiercely. 

But  he  went  on  to  explain  that  though  he  was 
sure  I  was  guiltless  of  practising  divination,  it 
behooved  a  Christian  woman  to  be  careful  what 
she  said  which  might  cause  another  to  stumble, 
especially  since  we  had  that  iniquitous  organi 
zation,  the  Society  for  Psychic  Research,  prey 
ing  upon  the  spiritual  life  of  the  community. 

"Very  well,  Brother  Hale,  I'll  bridle  my  tongue 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  139 

in  the  future,"  I  answered  grimly  as  he  took  leave 
of  me. 

Since  I  have  been  so  conscientious  in  recording 
the  transgressions  of  others  it  is  my  duty  to  set 
down  here  the  truth  about  myself  in  the  days  that 
followed.  I  backslid,  and,  like  many  another 
backslider,  I  started  upon  the  downward  grade 
with  a  deep  sense  of  injury  on  my  heart.  But 
the  Lord  makes  no  allowance  for  our  mortal  sense 
of  injustice.  He  holds  us  rigidly  to  the  standard 
of  returning  good  for  evil,  over  and  above  all  the 
other  things  we  do  to  one  another. 

I  had  wished  many  times  for  the  chance  to 
take  a  rest  from  being  the  handmaiden  of  all  works 
in  our  church.  Now  the  opportunity  had  come, 
through  no  fault  of  mine;  and  I  resolved  to  take 
a  vacation  from  my  Christian  duties.  Let  some 
other  woman  be  the  church  busybody!  I  reckon 
behind  the  door  of  my  mind,  my  other  mind  was 
thinking  about  what  would  happen  when  I  dropped 
out  and  left  the  other  workers  with  the  bag  to 
hold,  the  seeds  to  sow,  and  the  harvest  to  reap. 
But,  I  say,  the  Lord  numbers  such  thoughts  as 
these  along  with  the  hairs  of  your  head,  and  He 
collects  repentance  for  them  along  with  your  other 
transgressions. 

I  went  to  church  the  next  Sunday.  But  instead 
of  going  up  and  taking  my  accustomed  place  be- 


140     •  t     A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

hind  the  choir,  I  dropped  into  the  first  seat  I  came 
to.  This  was  in  the  extreme  rear  of  the  house. 
Doctor  Edd  was  the  only  other  person  on  it.  He 
looked  at  me  as  much  as  to  say:  "What's  the 
trouble?  Have  the  heavens  fallen?" 

I  paid  no  attention  to  him.  I  set  my  chin  for 
ward,  dropped  the  corners  of  my  mouth,  lifted  my 
eyes,  and  stared  straight  at  the  ceiling  above  the 
pulpit.  Jonah  sitting  in  his  guard  at  noonday, 
with  everybody  staring  at  him,  could  not  have  felt 
more  self-righteous. 

Charlotte  was  president  of  the  missionary 
society — let  her  remind  Brother  Hale  of  the  meet 
ing  on  Thursday!  I  said  to  myself  vindictively. 
Naturally  she  did  not  do  it,  since  I  had  always  at 
tended  to  that.  I  saw  her  look  round  and  catch 
sight  of  me  after  Brother  Hale  made  the  announce 
ments,  omitting  this  one. 

During  the  service  which  followed  I  was  con 
scious  that  half  the  people  in  the  house  turned  and 
stared  at  me  from  time  to  time.  But  I  never  once 
dropped  my  gaze  from  that  knothole  in  the  wall 
about  six  feet  above  the  preacher's  head.  I  re 
mained  seated  bolt  upright  during  prayers,  which 
was  the  hardest  thing  of  all  to  do.  In  spite  of  my 
efforts  to  remain  calmly  offended  I  felt  the  tears  on 
my  cheeks. 

My  custom  is  to  go  up  after  service  and  thank 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  141 

the  preacher  for  his  sermon.  I've  done  this  many 
a  time  when  he  had  made  a  flash  in  the  pan  or 
bored  me  so  I  could  not  keep  awake,  just  to  en 
courage  him  to  do  better  if  he  could  next  time. 
But  upon  this  day  I  flounced  out  of  the  door  and 
across  the  street  to  my  own  house  the  minute  the 
benediction  was  pronounced. 

I  did  not  go  to  the  meeting  of  the  missionary 
society.  I  sent  the  treasurer's  books  and  my 
resignation  by  Molly  Brown.  Late  the  same 
afternoon  she  brought  them  back  and  said  the 
society  refused  to  accept  niy  resignation.  But  I 
told  her  to  keep  them,  that  I  was  tired  of  walking 
the  streets  of  Berton  like  a  mendicant  trying  to 
collect  dues.  Let  Sally  Parks  have  the  office. 
She  was  a  good  woman ! 

"You  shouldn't  do  this  way,  Mary,"  Molly  said, 
tenderly  reproachful. 

"I'm  not  doing  any  way,  Molly;  I've  quit  doing. 
I'm  taking  a  rest,"  I  answered  serenely. 

But  the  Lord  alone  knows  how  I  suffered !  I  have 
never  lived  so  blamelessly  as  a  Christian  as  I  now- 
lived  as  a  backslider.  I  remained  at  home,  at 
tended  strictly  to  my  own  business,  and  talked 
about  nobody,  which  was  a  privilege  I  had  always 
enjoyed.  Nothing  went  right.  The  church  across 
the  street  accused  me.  I  was  very  low  in  my 
spirit,  and  took  rheumatism  in  my  knees.  But 


142  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

when  I  got  painfully  down  to  say  my  prayers,  the 
yeast  had  gone  out  of  my  petitions  and  they  did 
not  rise  above  my  head.  I  could  not  pray  with  the 
same  indignant  fervour  that  sinners  should  return 
from  the  error  of  their  ways  and  that  backsliders 
should  be  reclaimed.  The  very  heathen  seemed  to 
stare  at  me  reproachfully  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  as  if  I'd  forsaken  and  left  them  to  perish  in 
their  idolatries. 

Some  people,  with  no  holding-back  straps  to 
their  minds,  may  prove  that  faith  in  God  is  an  il 
lusion,  but  no  one  can  prove  that  about  the  re 
ligious  life.  It  comes  nearer  fitting  than  any  other 
kind  of  existence.  It  is  the  very  glove  of  im 
mortality.  If  you  cease  suddenly  to  do  the  things 
you've  always  done  in  His  name,  it  is  like  giving  up 
your  citizenship  in  one  country  and  becoming  an 
alien  in  another  without  crossing  your  own  thresh 
old. 

I  was  far  from  understanding  this  at  first.  I 
was  like  a  poor  old-lady  Samson  who  went  out  and 
shook  herself,  and  wist  not  that  her  strength  had 
departed  from  her. 

I  was  reduced  to  trying  peptonoid  Scriptures, 
like  Emily  Peters  when  she  reads  her  devotional 
exercises.  Some  one  had  given  me  a  little  book 
that  contained  one  hundred  quotations  from  the 
Old  and  New  Testament,  designed  like  quick 


A  Circuit  Rider  s  Widow  143 

remedies  to  meet  any  emergency  of  the  soul  with 
out  having  to  look  for  it.  But  none  of  those  verses 
were  written  for  me.  They  were  for  the  woman  I 
had  been. 

Still,  something  in  me  held  out  like  the  seven 
devils  of  perversity.  A  backslider  will  hold  fast  to 
his  integrity  and  make  less  fuss  about  it  than  Job 
did. 

After  two  or  three  weeks  had  gone  by  Sally 
Parks  came  in  one  day,  looking  very  meek  and 
awkward,  as  if  she'd  never  been  hi  this  house  be 
fore,  and  didn't  feel  free  to  come  back  to  the  kit 
chen,  where  I  was  making  pies.  I  showed  her  into 
the  parlour  and  took  off  my  apron. 

She  told  me  all  the  news  of  the  town,  but  I  made 
no  comment.  She  said  she  noticed  I'd  been  keep 
ing  close  at  home  lately,  and  she  hoped  it  was  not 
la  grippe.  I  told  her  no,  I  was  very  well,  "Thank 
you."  She  supposed  I'd  heard  that  Brother  Hale 
was  having  trouble  with  the  choir.  I  saw  Lily 
Triggs!  in  capital  letters  on  her  lips,  but  I  would 
not  encourage  her  to  say  what  the  trouble  was. 
The  choir  was  as  far  from  my  thought  as  the  East 
is  from  the  West. 

"I  reckon  you  know  Charlotte  resigned  as 
president  of  our  missionary  society,"  she  ventured. 

I  did  not  know  that  either. 

"Have  you  planted   your  garden?"   I  asked, 


144  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

changing  the  subject  so  abruptly  it  was  like  casting 
Charlotte  out  of  the  window. 

"No,  I  don't  get  time  to  do  anything  at  home 
since  we've  had  so  much  trouble  keeping  the 
society  together.  I'm  president  now,  you  know," 
she  said  with  a  sigh. 

"My  lettuce  is  coming  up  like  little  green  curls 
and  the  radishes  are  ready  for  use,"  I  put  in  cheer 
fully. 

We  went  on  talking  at  cross-purposes,  she  en 
deavouring  to  draw  me  back  to  church  affairs, 
while  I  circled  and  evaded  the  subject,  never  im 
plying  by  word  or  look  that  I'd  ever  been  a 
Christian  woman.  When  she  arose  to  go  she 
paused  at  the  door,  regarding  me  with  the  forlorn 
expression  of  a  little  old  girl  who  wishes  to  be  for 
given  something. 

"Mary,"  she  began,  "I  make  mistakes  some 
times — we  all  do.  I  meant  no  harm  when  I  told 
Charlotte  about  what  you  said  to  me  that  day, 
but " 

"If  you  see  the  Peters  children  as  you  go  home, 
tell  them  their  old  cat  has  kittens  in  my  wood 
shed,"  I  said,  interrupting  as  if  I  had  not  heard 
what  she  was  trying  to  tell  me. 

"Very  well,  I  will,"  she  answered  sadly,  and 
went  out. 

I  have  always  attended  services  in  my  own 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  145 

church,  even  when  the  Baptists  or  Presbyterians 
had  a  celebrity  to  preach  for  them.  But  I  planned 
now  to  make  a  Sabbath-day's  journey  abroad  in 
the  Gospel  and  worship  with  other  denominations. 
I  was  excited  over  this  adventure.  It  was  like 
preparing  for  a  visit  to  foreign  parts. 

The  next  Sunday  I  went  to  the  Presbyterian 
Church.  I  felt  very  queer,  with  everybody  staring 
at  me  during  the  singing  of  the  first  hymn.  Doctor 
Me  Andrews  read  his  sermon.  I  reckoned  he  al 
ways  did,  for  the  congregation  sat  as  comfortably 
under  it  as  if  he  were  pasting  it  to  them,  one  leaf  at 
a  time.  But  for  me  it  was  like  having  cold  bread 
and  ice  water  for  breakfast  when  I'd  been  accus 
tomed  to  hot  biscuits  and  coffee.  I  went  home 
chilled  to  the  marrow  of  niy  spirit. 

The  following  Sunday  I  went  to  the  Baptist 
Church,  which  I  should  not  have  done  if  I  had  re 
membered  this  was  Communion  Day  Doctor 
Fulton  was  already  under  way  with  his  discourse 
when  I  came  in.  Whatever  his  text  may  have 
been,  he  preached  long  and  earnestly  upon  the, 
word  "Baptidso."  The  sense  of  what  he  said  was 
that  no  one  need  hope  for  the  remission  of  their 
sins  who  slurred  the  meaning  of  that  word.  "You 
must  be  baptized!"  he  shouted  with  emphasis. 

He  was  a  good  man.  But  how  a  good  man  could 
preach  just  a  doctrine  which  excluded  so  many 


146  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

other  people  from  the  Lord's  mercies  was  a  mystery 
to  me. 

When  I  was  a  child  we  had  a  Sunday-school  song 
which  ran  something  like  this: 

Pull  for  the  shore,  sailor,  pull  for  the  shore! 
Heed  not  the  breaking  waves  but  bend  to  the  oar. 
Safe  in  the  lifeboat,  sailor,  cling  to  self  no  more, 
Leave  the  poor  old  stranded  wreck,  and  pull  for  the 
shore. 

But  I  was  too  young  to  read  the  words.  What 
I  thought  they  sang  was  : 

Leave  that  poor  old  strangled  wretch  behind  and  pull 
for  the  shore. 

This  seemed  to  me  a  most  barbarous  and  un 
christian  thing  to  do.  I  reckon  it  is  the  same  way 
with  me  now  about  the  Baptist  doctrines — I  miss 
the  proper  meaning. 

The  worst  was  yet  to  come.  Doctor  Fulton 
closed  his  sermon  by  emphasizing  the  rite  of  "close 
communion."  The  elect  should  not  take  the 
sacrament  with  sinners  and  outsiders. 

I  would  not  confess  myself  a  sinner  or  an  out 
sider  by  leaving.  The  deacons  passed  the  bread 
and  wine.  When  they  came  to  the  pew  where  I 
was  sitting  they  skipped  me  as  if  I  were  a  dropped 
stitch.  I  turned  deathly  homesick  in  a  moment 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  147 

for  my  own  church,  and  for  the  people  who  were 
also  taking  this  sacrament  there  before  the  altar. 

I  hope  I  should  have  done  right  in  any  case  and 
gone  back  to  my  own  church  after  this  experience, 
but  that  night  I  came  down  with  influenza  which 
developed  into  pneumonia.  The  first  person  I  saw 
when  the  red  pain  in  my  breast  let  go  enough  for 
me  to  get  a  good  breath  was  Sally  Parks  bending 
over  my  bed. 

"Sally,"  I  whispered,  "how  many  blooms  are 
there  on  your  Cape  jasmine  bush?" 

"Hush,  Mary  dear.  You  are  better,  thank 
heaven!  But  Charlotte  and  I  were  frightened 
about  you  last  night,"  she  said  tenderly. 

"Did  you  say  Charlotte  was  here,  too?"  I  asked 
feebly. 

"Every  night  while  you  were  so  bad  off  she  was 
here.  So  many  have  called — Baptists  and  Presby 
terians,  too.  And  our  pastor  offered  a  special 
prayer  for  your  recovery  last  Sunday." 

I  closed  my  eyes,  deeply  comforted,  as  if  sud 
denly  my  transgressions  melted  away.  This  may 
be  the  reason  why  penitents  weep.  I  felt  the  tears 
start. 

"Sally,"  I  began,  whimpering  weakly,  "I  feel 
like  the  prodigal  son.  And  your  kindness  feels 
like  the  fine  robe  his  folks  ran  out  and  put  on 
him  when  he  came  home!" 


148  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

The  picture  I  had  of  myself — a  fat  old  woman 
running  off  to  strange  churches  and  now  bundled 
up  so  warm  and  easy  in  my  own  bed — made  me 
laugh  a  little. 

"Don't  talk  any  more,  dear!"  she  continued, 
smiling,  too. 

I  was  able  to  get  out  by  Easter;  but  for  a  long 
time  I  felt  as  the  wicked  do  after  they  turn  from 
the  error  of  their  ways.  I  had  a  past  to  live  down. 
But  nobody  in  this  church  can  say  I  didn't  do  it 
with  proper  energy  and  assurance.  I  just  took 
hold  where  I  left  off,  and  went  on  holding  my 
own  in  the  spirit  and  out  of  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  Scriptures  prove  that  the  Lord  thinks 
well  of  widows.  In  the  old  Moab  days 
a  little  grain  was  left  after  the  harvest  for 
them  to  pick  up.  Even  the  "unjust  judge"  had 
to  grant  the  plea  of  the  importunate  widow,  not 
because  she  was  importunate — for  this  is  the 
singsong  characteristic  of  most  women — but  be 
cause  she  was  a  widow  and  had  a  hard  time.  It 
is  the  widow's  mite  that  counts  for  more  than 
the  rich  man's  gift  with  Him.  If  you  notice, 
widows  are  the  ones  who  go  about  with  their 
mites  tied  up  in  the  end  of  their  pocket  hand 
kerchiefs.  I've  seen  Molly  Brown  keep  the  col 
lection  basket  bobbing  in  Sam  Parks'  hand  many 
a  time  while  she  untied  the  knot  and  squeezed 
out  her  penny.  And  you  are  commanded  to 
visit  them  in  their  affliction,  because  He  numbers 
them  with  the  sparrows  that  fall. 

The  women  best  known  for  their  good  works 
and  faithfulness  among  the  early  Christians  were 
nearly  all  widows,  like  Phebe  and  Dorcas  and 
Lydia.  Maybe  they  could  follow  the  will  of  their 
own  spirits  better,  having  no  husbands  to  hinder 

149 


150  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

them.  For  husbands  do  have  a  powerful  effect 
upon  the  morals  of  their  wives.  Many  a  good 
woman  cannot  serve  God  according  to  her  con 
science  because  she  must  serve  her  husband 
according  to  his  will  and  feelings.  If  I  could 
preach,  I'd  take  Sapphira  as  my  text,  and  I'd 
prove  by  the  lives  of  the  women  I  know  that 
she  never  would  have  cheated  the  Lord,  nor  told 
that  lie  about  the  "possession"  they  sold,  if 
Ananias  had  not  made  her  do  it.  Women  are 
generous  to  the  church.  But  I  can  name  half  a 
dozen  in  this  Methodist  Church  at  Berton,  mar 
ried  to  prosperous  men,  who  never  give  more  than 
a  widow's  mite  because  they  have  no  more  to 
spare.  And  they  are  always  telling  Sapphira 
lies  about  that,  for  the  same  reason — to  obey  and 
shield  an  Ananias  husband. 

But  I  say  the  real  widows  make  a  good  showing 
in  the  Scriptures.  They  are  used  in  the  best 
parables  to  teach  the  most  comforting  things. 
The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  likened  unto  the  leaven 
that  a  widow  hid  in  three  measures  of  meal  until 
the  whole  was  leavened.  I  have  never  seen  a 
church  yet  where  this  yeast  of  the  spirit  was  not 
furnished  by  widows  and  old  maids,  who  are 
really  virgin  widows,  and  by  some  little  pinched- 
pocket  Sapphira  wife  who  might  as  well  be  a 
widow. 


A  Circuit  Rider9 s  Widow  151 

But  when  it  comes  to  the  leaven  of  the  scribes 
and  Pharisees,  you  will  find  that  chiefly  among 
the  brethren.  And  when  Paul  said,  "A  little 
leaven  leaveneth  the  whole  lump,"  he  was  warn 
ing  the  Corinthian  Christians  against  keeping  a 
certain  prominent  man  in  the  church  whose  morals 
had  fermented. 

Nearly  every  church  has  this  evil  leaven  in  it — 
some  woman  with  damaged  skylights  in  her  rep 
utation,  or  some  man  with  the  same  kind  of 
character  who  keeps  a  tight  roof  over  his  reputa 
tion.  If  it  is  a  man,  the  apostle  or  the  preacher 
discovers  him  and  flings  enough  Scriptures  in  his 
direction  to  warn  the  innocent  and  to  keep  him  in 
modest  retirement;  but  if  it  is  a  little  gilt-edged 
woman  with  the  yeast  of  seven  devils  in  her,  he 
maneuvers  the  Gospel  round  her,  never  attacks 
her,  never  crosses  the  dead  line  of  her  influence. 
I  do  not  know  why  this  is,  unless  it  is  because  a 
woman  with  seven  devils  is  dangerously  sacred. 

Some  people  think  Lily  Triggs  is  this  leaven  in 
our  church.  I  do  not  know.  After  observing 
her  for  four  years  I  am  still  in  doubt  about  her. 
But  my  doubts  grow  darker  and  my  antipathy 
increases.  That  may  be  due  to  the  evil  mind  in 
me,  for  I  know,  by  experience  as  well  as  by  ob 
servation,  that  the  power  of  imputing  sin  to  others 
is  often  very  strong  in  Christian  workers. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

Lily  may  be  the  spirit  of  progress  in  this  town, 
for  all  I  know,  patiently  labouring  to  overcome  our 
prejudices  against  the  current  of  modern  ideas. 
But  if  she  is,  progress  looks  most  awfully  like 
damnation  to  me.  We  have  never  produced  any 
thing  like  her  in  Berton.  She  has  a  nefarious 
use  of  her  faculties,  which  could  only  have  been 
acquired  where  sin  is  not  sin,  but  the  unfortunate 
result  of  environment;  where  virtue  is  custom, 
and  righteousness  is  not  righteousness  but  an 
old-fashioned  bigotry  which  limits  the  consti 
tutional  rights  of  human  nature  to  vaunt  itself 
and  have  a  good  time.  She  is  an  individualist 
when  it  comes  to  this  question  of  personal  liberty, 
and  will  have  her  rights  at  the  expense  of  what 
ever  injury  to  society  as  a  whole.  But  she  is 
something  of  an  anarchist  and  a  socialist  after 
she  gets  what  she  wants  for  herself,  ready  to 
destroy  the  order  of  things  and  lead  a  movement 
over  the  ruins  of  the  way.  In  short,  she  is  a 
very  able  woman,  and  there  is  nothing  like  her 
in  the  moral  world  except  another  woman  of  the 
same  kind. 

She  has  kept  her  place  in  the  choir  of  this 
church  with  a  fortitude  under  strictly  feminine 
persecution  which  no  good  woman  should  have 
felt  called  upon  to  endure.  She  has  lived  down 
one  scandal  after  another  like  a  saint  who  is  not 


"LILY    MAY    BE    THE    SPIRIT    OF    PROGRESS    IN    THIS 
TOWN     ....     BUT   IF   SHE   IS,   PROGRESS   LOOKS 

MOST  AWFULLY  LIKE  DAMNATION  TO  ME" 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  153 

a  saint.  She  is  eager  to  serve.  If  there  is  an 
entertainment  to  be  given  for  the  benefit  of  the 
church  or  parsonage,  she  is  in  the  thick  of  it, 
with  more  and  better  plans  for  raising  money 
than  any  one  else  can  think  of.  If  the  district 
meeting  is  held  in  Berton  she  takes  more  dele 
gates  than  anybody  gets,  including  the  presiding 
elder.  The  only  time  we  have  had  a  bishop  to 
preach  for  us  in  four  years  he  was  entertained  by 
Mrs.  Lily  Triggs  and  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Browder — • 
this  "aunt"  being  an  old  rag-doll  lady  Lily  has 
picked  up  to  give  an  air  of  propriety  and  sanctity 
to  her  elegant  establishment.  If  some  one  is  in 
distress  and  needs  help,  her  purse  flies  open  while 
the  rest  of  us  are  hesitating  about  how  much  we 
can  afford  to  give.  If  it  is  the  funeral  of  some 
woman  who  did  not  speak  to  her,  Lily  is  there  to 
sing  with  touching  sweetness,  "Shall  We  Gather 
at  the  River!" 

From  time  to  time  there  is  a  violent  secret 
agitation  in  the  church,  stirred  by  the  efforts  we 
make  to  get  her  out  of  the  choir.  She  remains 
artlessly  ignorant  of  this  opposition,  though  the 
town  may  be  seething  like  a  caldron  with  it.  We 
invariably  fall  back  defeated,  and  relieve  our 
indignation  by  talking  about  her  to  the  injury 
of  our  Christian  attributes.  But  she  never  talks 
about  any  one,  except  to  speak  well  of  them. 


154  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

She  will  not  criticise  her  worst  enemy.  If  she  is 
a  good  woman  she  is  the  best  woman  in  the  church. 
And  we  have  never  been  able  to  prove  that  she 
is  not  good.  Every  time  we  think  we  have  caught 
her  red-handed,  she  faces  about  with  one  of  our 
own  most  cherished  virtues  clasped  to  her  breast 
as  a  shield  and  buckler.  When  Maggie  Fain  was 
on  the  point  of  suing  for  divorce  from  Oscar  and 
naming  Lily  as  corespondent,  what  was  our  as 
tonishment  to  learn  that  she  had  given  up  the 
idea,  gone  back  to  Oscar,  and  joined  the  Suffrage 
League.  We  heard  later  that  Lily  was  developing 
the  oldest  Fain  girl's  voice,  which  she  said  was 
wonderful,  and  she  hoped  to  see  the  child  on  the 
grand-opera  stage  some  day.  Maggie  told  this 
story  with  tears  of  gratitude  in  her  eyes. 

Lily  had  Molly  Brown's  unqualified  support, 
because  she  paid  Molly's  grocery  bill  and  "talked 
like  an  angel."  Charlotte  Warren  was  her  de 
voted  friend  and  running  mate,  because  she  said 
Lily  was  a  brilliant  woman  with  advanced  ideas, 
wasting  her  talents  in  a  little  old  one-horse  town 
where  she  was  not  appreciated.  They  were  like 
a  police  force  corrupted  with  a  compliment  here, 
a  good  deed  there,  all  contributed  by  Lily  like 
the  cleanest  Christian  charity. 

We  often  had  the  same  pastor  returned  to  us 
for  four  years.  But  after  Lily  joined  the  choir 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  155 

every  preacher  sent  to  this  church  was  moved  at 
the  end  of  his  first  year.  And  the  pathetic  part 
of  it  was  that  they  always  expected  to  be  returned 
and  never  knew  why  they  were  moved. 

The  negotiation  of  pastors  is  carried  on  privily 
between  the  presiding  elder  and  influential  mem 
bers  of  the  church.  A  pastor  may  leave  for  Con 
ference  with  his  assessments  paid  in  full,  and  with 
every  reason  for  believing  that  he  has  been  accept 
able  to  the  people  in  his  charge.  But  when  the 
appointments  are  read  he  may  find  that  he  has 
been  sent  to  another  charge  two  hundred  miles 
distant.  He  never  knows  why.  Maybe  he  has 
offended  a  steward.  Maybe  he  had  a  great  re 
vival,  and  many  souls  reclaimed,  but  only  col 
lected  30  per  cent,  of  his  assessments.  So  the  pre 
siding  elders  get  together  in  the  bishop's  cabinet 
and  trade  preachers.  Sometimes  there  is  a  little 
runt  of  an  itinerant  whom  no  elder  wants  in  his 
district.  He  is  given  a  mission  in  the  mountains, 
or  is  sent  as  a  "supply"  to  fill  up  a  chink  in  the 
general  work.  If  a  young  preacher  shows  marked 
evangelistic  tendencies  and  grows  faster  in  popu 
larity  with  the  people  he  serves  than  the  elders 
think  is  good  for  the  church — which  may  happen, 
owing  to  a  reaction  against  emotional  religion — 
they  switch  him  off  entirely  by  making  him  the 
"agent"  for  an  educational  institution  or  for  some 


156  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

general  fund.  I  am  not  criticising  these  methods, 
you  understand;  I'm  only  telling  how  a  church 
governed  by  a  military  system  is  conducted,  with 
the  bishops  and  thirteen  elders  as  ranking  officers. 

Brother  Worthen  was  Lily  Triggs'  first  victim. 
He  was  an  honest  man  and  a  good  one,  which  made 
it  all  the  easier  for  her  to  throw  her  bright  dust  in  his 
eyes.  He  was  our  pastor,  the  husband  of  his  wife, 
and  Lily's  Knight  of  the  Garter,  ready  to  defend 
her  at  the  risk  of  his  own  reputation.  Nothing 
was  farther  from  his  thoughts  than  that  he  would 
not  be  returned  here  when  he  left  for  Conference. 
But  a  preacher's  wife  is  clairvoyant  in  these  mat 
ters,  and  Brother  Worthen  was  hardly  out  of  town 
before  Sister  Worthen  began  to  pack  her  things 
after  the  timid,  surreptitious  manner  of  her 
kind. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  stewards  and  trustees  of 
our  church — some  of  them  members  of  the  choir — 
had  already  notified  the  presiding  elder  of  this 
district  that  they  wanted  Brother  Worthen  moved. 
They  had  no  complaint  to  make,  they  wrote;  he 
was  a  fine,  genial  gentleman,  but  not  the  man  for 
Berton.  They  wanted  a  pastor  with  "  some  back 
bone." 

We  got  him.  Brother  Hale  had  two  backbones, 
so  to  speak.  Instead  of  finding  the  harvest  ripe 
and  the  labourers  few  on  the  outside  of  the  church, 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  157 

he  sailed  into  the  membership  of  the  church  itself, 
and  undertook  to  weed  the  tares  from  the  wheat, 
which  is  a  thing  no  preacher  can  do  without  tearing 
up  the  church  by  the  roots  of  its  natural  transgres 
sions.  He  had  trouble  with  the  stewards  and  the 
Sunday-school  superintendent,  not  to  mention  the 
trouble  he  stirred  up  with  an  old  Dorcas  like  me. 
However,  there  is  always  an  element  in  the  church 
that  supports  such  a  preacher,  and  I  reckon  he 
would  have  been  sent  back  the  next  year  if  he  had 
not  finally  caught  sight  of  Lily  Triggs  sitting  like 
a  limned  twig  in  the  choir.  He  put  his  whole 
mind  upon  Lily,  but  not  in  the  terms  of  Christian 
charity.  Still  he  was  prudent,  never  openly 
preaching  against  more  than  the  powder  on  her 
nose,  which  he  did  under  the  terms  of  "female 
vanity"  and  in  a  manner  so  general  it  applied  to 
every  woman  who  had  flowers  on  her  hat.  Pri 
vately,  however,  he  announced  to  the  brethren 
that  if  he  should  be  returned  to  Berton  another 
year,  he  would  have  the  Triggs  woman  out  of  the 
choir  or  abolish  sacred  music  in  the  church. 

Tom  Warren  went  to  Conference  as  lay  delegate 
that  year.  He  is  the  richest  man  in  our  church, 
and  he  can  practically  behead  any  preacher  he  does 
not  like  by  cutting  off  his  subscription  to  the  pas 
tor's  salary.  He  demanded  the  removal  of  Brother 
Hale,  really  because  Charlotte  took  this  way  of  de- 


158  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

fending  Lily.  What  he  charged  against  him  was  a 
"contentious  spirit  injurious  to  the  harmony  of 
the  church,"  which  was  funny,  considering  that  his 
line-fence  feud  with  Roger  Peters  had  split  the  very 
amen  corners  of  it  for  ten  years.  Thus  if  we  had  a 
pastor  who  approved  of  Lily,  he  was  removed  for 
that.  If  we  had  one  who  disapproved  of  her,  he 
was  sure  to  be  removed  for  that. 

By  this  time  she  was  firmly  intrenched  in  the 
social  life  of  the  town.  She  was  a  pretty  little  tare 
who  had  fallen  in  good  ground,  the  soil  of  a  com 
munity  overfed  upon  doctrines  and  foreign-mission 
literature  and  church  festivals,  unconsciously  crav 
ing  a  change  of  diet,  famished  for  the  normal 
pleasures  of  life  still  in  the  flesh. 

This  is  the  turning-point  in  the  family  history  of 
every  church.  And  it  just  will  turn,  though  you 
give  your  body  to  be  burned  and  all  your  goods  to 
feed  the  poor.  You  may  call  in  the  most  eloquent 
evangelists  and  set  all  the  Gospel  forces  of  the 
church  against  it,  but  the  thing  happens,  a  revolu 
tion  in  the  very  spirit  of  that  place  which  often 
leaves  the  Christian  people  tagging  along  behind, 
vainly  swinging  to  the  coat  tails  of  a  wicked  and 
perverse  generation  which  was  born  in  the  church 
and  bred  upon  its  faith.  One  explanation  and  an 
other  is  given  for  this  phenomenon.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  name  the  trouble,  if  it  is  a  trouble  or 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  159 

merely  a  natural  earth  reaction  from  too  much  sky 
culture. 

But  I  will  venture  this — that  in  the  case  of  the 
herd  of  swine,  mentioned  in  Matthew,  which  had 
the  devils  cast  into  it,  went  crazy,  ran  and  jumped 
into  the  sea,  and  perished  because  of  the  evil  spirits 
which  possessed  it,  one  of  them  was  progress  and 
the  other  was  art.  For  the  records  of  history  all 
prove  that  this  is  what  happens  every  time  the 
spirit  of  progress  and  the  spirit  of  art  get  control  of 
a  civilization.  It  tumbles  down  a  "steep  place" 
in  the  next  century,  perishes,  and  has  to  be  built  up 
again,  always  by  the  Christian  religion. 

As  I  have  said  before,  Lily  Triggs  may  have  been 
the  spirit  of  progress  leavening  the  town.  Berton 
certainly  did  take  on  a  strange  new  life.  Women 
who  formerly  invited  you  to  dinner  in  the  middle  of 
the  day  gave  receptions  in  the  tail  of  the  afternoon 
and  served  punch  at  the  front  door.  Or  there  was 
a  lecture  on  suffrage,  with  refreshments  afterward. 
Or  a  strange  woman  came  to  town  and  gave  a  par 
lour  interpretation  of  Parsifal  at  the  residence  of 
Mrs.  Lily  Triggs,  for  Lily  said  Berton  was  wofully 
lacking  in  the  knowledge  and  appreciation  of  the 
great  operas. 

You  may  always  know  where  a  community  is  in 
the  scale  of  things,  without  reading  a  history  of 
European  morals  or  even  current  literature,  by 


160  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

simply  observing  the  popular  topics  of  conversa 
tion.  They  register  exactly  how  near  those  people 
are  to  the  "steep  place." 

If  the  men  are  still  discussing  apostasy  and  fore- 
ordination  around  the  stove  in  the  back  of  the 
grocery  store  you  may  take  it  for  granted  that 
there  is  not  much  enterprise  in  the  community; 
and  that  the  women  and  preachers  are  striving  for 
foreign  missions  and  for  a  deeper  work  of  grace; 
and  that  at  least  once  a  year  there  is  a  gracious 
revival  during  which  sinners  repent,  backsliders  are 
reclaimed ;  and  that  many  of  these  live  wholly  con 
secrated  lives  without  causing  two  blades  of  grass 
to  grow  where  only  one  grew  before,  commercially 
speaking. 

But  if  the  men  are  talking  politics  and  of  the 
possibility  of  a  new  railroad  to  open  up  that  sec 
tion,  this  is  a  sign  of  the  awakening  of  the  com 
munity  to  certain  natural  advantages  and  of  the 
rise  in  the  price  of  real  estate.  The  women  are  the 
posters  who  advertise  the  whole  thing  with  their 
little  competitions  in  the  simpler  transgressions  of 
fashions  and  what  may  be  called  first  steps  in 
worldly  ambitions.  But  they  are  still  loyal  to  the 
church. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  men  organize  a  club 
in  the  top  room  of  the  village  hotel,  where  they 
spend  a  good  deal  of  time  mysteriously;  if  they  dis- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  161 

cuss  the  Karl  Marx  theory  of  government,  cotton 
futures  and  industrial  conditions,  you  will  find  the 
women  studying  art,  defending  the  Motif  of  Hor 
ror  in  decadent  dramas,  and  very  busy  starting  the 
Feminist  Movement.  This  is  a  sign  that  the  pas 
tor  receives  a  large  salary,  that  the  president  of  the 
Woman's  Missionary  Society  is  an  old  frump  who 
does  not  know  how  to  move  in  social  circles  nor 
how  to  catch  step  in  the  annual  suffrage  parade, 
and  that  the  church  is  dead. 

Berton  was  not  so  far  gone  as  this.  But  the 
leaven  was  working.  The  City  Improvement 
Company  was  organized.  There  was  some  talk  of 
putting  up  a  moving-picture  theatre.  The  report 
of  an  expert  accountant,  employed  by  a  dis 
gruntled  element  in  the  town  council  to  go  over  the 
county  tax  books,  had  been  suppressed.  The 
Ladies'  Art  Committee  planned  an  exhibition  of 
original  paintings  in  the  fall.  And  at  a  meeting  of 
the  Woman's  Missionary  Society,  Charlotte  War- 
ran  referred  to  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  as  "one  of 
the  most  beautiful  epics  to  be  found  in  all  litera 
ture."  But  about  this  time  some  of  Lily  Triggs' 
chickens  came  home  to  roost,  and  the  progressive 
spirit  in  social  circles  had  a  backset. 

Judson  W7inter  was  a  young  attorney  here.  He 
was  also  one  of  Lily's  musical  discoveries.  During 
the  previous  year  he  spent  much  of  his  time  culti- 


162  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

vating  his  voice  in  the  evenings  at  Lily's  house. 
Later,  when  Sam  Parks  resigned  from  the  choir, 
Judson  took  his  place.  Then,  quite  unexpectedly, 
he  married  Dorothy  Allen.  Dorothy  was  a  mem 
ber  of  our  church  and  chairman  of  the  executive 
committee  in  the  Suffrage  League. 

But  when  the  young  couple  returned  from  their 
honeymoon  Judson  resigned  from  the  choir,  and 
Dorothy  did  not  even  go  through  the  ceremony  of 
resigning  from  the  Suffrage  League.  She  simply 
met  Lily  face  to  face  one  day  on  the  street  and  re 
fused  to  speak  to  her.  This  was  all  we  knew,  but 
it  was  enough  to  furnish  fuel  for  smouldering  fires. 

Lily  dismissed  the  whole  situation  in  her  char 
acteristic  manner.  She  said  she  was  sorry  to  lose 
Judson.  He  had  a  splendid  voice,  but  of  course 
one  could  not  expect  a  bridegroom  to  attend  choir 
practice,  and  he  had  done  quite  right  to  resign.  It 
was  all  right,  for  she  had  persuaded  Brother  Lipton 
to  sing  bass. 

Even  the  bravest  may  be  too  bold.  This  is  what 
I  thought  when  I  saw  John  Henry  Lipton  sitting 
beside  Lily  in  the  choir  the  next  Sunday  singing 
bass  out  of  the  same  hymn  book  with  her.  For 
Taggy  is  John  Henry's  wife.  She  is  one  of  those 
nervous  women  who  keeps  her  feelings  wound  up 
as  tight  as  a  watch  spring.  Her  marital  motto  is : 
"I  can  stand  just  so  much  and  no  more!"  When 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  163 

she  reaches  her  limit  something  happens.  If 
nothing  did  happen  Taggy  would  explode.  She  is 
combustible.  She  has  managed  John  Henry  for 
twenty  years  with  her  nervous  spells. 

He  is  a  big,  fine-looking  man  with  a  florid  com 
plexion  and  a  cheerful  disposition.  He  swaggers 
a  little  when  he  walks,  stands  up  on  his  hind  legs 
when  he  sings,  and  always  backs  the  church  like  a 
good  citizen  instead  of  a  sad  saint.  He  is  the  best 
Sunday-school  superintendent  we  ever  had. 

When  he  joined  the  choir  and  made  himself  so 
useful  to  Lily,  helping  her  put  on  her  wraps  after 
services  and  bringing  her  a  glass  of  water  between 
services,  and  slipping  notes  to  her  during  services 
about  which  hymns  to  sing,  I  said  it  made  me 
nervous. 

One  afternoon  I  went  to  call  on  Sister  Battle,  our 
pastor's  wife.  She  was  a  large,  placid  woman  with 
a  round,  middle-aged  figure  and  a  middle-aged 
mind,  with  that  kind  of  resignation  one  sometimes 
sees  upon  the  face  of  a  preacher's  wife  who  knows 
all  her  tribulations  by  heart  and  fears  them  not  at 
all. 

"I  was  just  wishing  some  one  would  come  in," 
she  said,  shaking  the  cat  off  the  cushion  in  the 
rocking-chair  and  drawing  it  closer  to  the  fire  for 
me. 

"How  are  you?"  she  asked  comfortably. 


164  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"I  have  a  bad  cold,"  I  said,  hurrying  to  get  out 
my  handkerchief. 

"Mr.  Battle  has  one,  too,"  she  confided. 

"Everybody  seems  to  have  one,"  I  agreed. 

"I  can  always  tell  when  I'm  taking  one,"  she 
explained.  "The  back  of  my  neck  gets  cold." 

We  went  on  for  some  time,  telling  each  other 
about  how  this  ailment  and  that  affected  us,  the 
way  women  do  sometimes,  until  presently  we  both 
fell  silent  and  exchanged  glances  the  way  women 
do  when  they  have  been  talking  about  one  thing 
and  thinking  about  another. 

"Have  you  seen  Sister  Lip  ton  lately?"  she  asked 
presently. 

"No.     Why?" 

"She  was  not  at  church  Sunday.  I  thought 
maybe  she  might  have  a  bad  cold." 

"She  hasn't  been  to  church  in  a  month,"  I 
answered  reflectively. 

"You  are  good  friends,  aren't  you?"  she  asked, 
gently  leading  me  to  talk  about  Taggy. 

"I've  known  her  since  she  was  a  girl,  and  I've 
known  John  Henry  since  she  married  him.  Nat 
urally  I'm  fond  of  them  both,"  I  answered,  won 
dering  what  she  had  in  her  mind. 

"They  have  been  happy  together,  I  suppose." 

"Happy  is  a  young  adjective,  Sister  Battle.  I 
should  never  apply  it  to  the  relation  of  two  people 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  165 

who've  been  married  twenty  years.  Taggy  knows 
how  to  manage  her  husband,  if  that  is  what  you 
mean." 

"Sometimes  when  a  woman  is  married  to  a 
fine-looking  man  she  is  inclined  to  be  jealous — 
without  cause  "  she  remarked. 

"Every  wife  has  one  cause  to  be  jealous  of  her 
husband,"  I  answered  coolly. 

"And  what  is  that?"  she  asked  in  mild  sur 
prise. 

"She  is  not  the  only  woman  in  the  world!"  I 
laughed. 

"Dear  me,  Sister  Thompson,  you  surely  don't 
think  that  is  a  just  cause  for  jealousy!"  she  ex 
claimed. 

"No,  only  a  natural  cause,  which  she  may  never 
consider  at  all.  But  she  keeps  putting  it  behind 
her  like  Satan  so  long  as  she  lives.  Now  tell  me 
about  Taggy.  What  is  the  trouble?"  I  asked, 
coming  straight  to  the  point 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say  anything  about  it 
— such  a  distressing  affair." 

"  Well,  if  it  has  anything  to  do  with  Lily  Triggs 
and  John  Henry,  you  may  as  well  tell  wrhat  you 
know.  The  whole  town  is  talking  already." 

"The  truth  is,  Sister  Lipton  sent  for  Mr.  Battle 
this  morning.  She  was  in  a  great  state.  Mr. 
Battle  thinks  she  was  hysterical,"  she  began. 


166  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"Oh,  she  would  be.  Taggy  is  always  hysteri 
cal,"  I  put  in. 

"She  said  she  had  found  a  note  from  Mrs. 
Triggs  in  Brother  Lipton's  pocket " 

"Naturally.  It  was  about  the  Easter  music, 
I'll  warrant.  Lily's  at  her  worst  when  she  writes 
about  anthems!"  I  interrupted  again. 

"I  think  it  was,  in  fact,  but  she  told  Mr.  Battle 
that  no  good  woman  would  write  to  a  married 
man  that  way  about  Jerusalem  the  Golden.  She 
said  our  choir  was  the  sinkhole  of  iniquity,  and 
that  Mrs.  Triggs'  feet — well,  I  will  not  tell  what 
she  said  about  her  feet.  She  said  the  note  indi 
cated  that  the  relations  between  her  and  Brother 
Lip  ton  were  sentimental,  to  say  the  least  of  it " 

"On  Lily's  part,  of  course,"  I  sniffed,  "but  that 
ought  not  to  prove  John  Henry  guilty." 

"So  Mr.  Battle  tried  to  make  her  believe,  but 
she  was  so  wrought  up  she  told  him  if  he  didn't 
put  Mrs.  Triggs  out  of  the  choir  she  would  pub 
lish  her  to  the  world,  and  leave  the  church  her 
self." 

"Publishing  Lily  will  do  no  good.  Everybody 
knows  her  and  nobody  knows  her,"  I  commented. 

"And  that  is  not  the  worst  of  it,"  Sister  Battle 
went  on. 

"Don't  tell  me  she  sent  for  Lily!"  I  exclaimed, 

"No,  but  this  afternoon,  just  before  you  came, 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  167 

Brother  Lipton  called.  You  wouldn't  have  known 
him!"  she  exclaimed,  deeply  sympathetic. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  should  They  all  look  the  same 
way  when  Lily  passes  them  up — innocent  and 
wilted!" 

"He  explained  everything,  said  he  had  done 
nothing  wrong.  'Brother  Battle,'  he  said,  'my 
wife's  an  angel  and  I'm  as  innocent  as  she  is. 
I'm  as  true  to  her  as  she  is  to  me ! '  But  he  handed 
in  his  resignation  as  Sunday-school  superintendent 
— and  would  you  believe  it,  that  poor  man  left 
this  house  with  the  tears  streaming  from  his  eyes. 
Now  what  are  we  to  do?"  she  concluded. 

"If  the  Lord  in  His  wisdom  saw  fit  to  call  Lily 
for  solo  service  in  the  celestial  choir,  it  would 
help  this  church  and  soothe  the  heart  of  every 
woman  in  it.  But  He  won't,"  I  sighed. 

"Something  must  be  done.  How  will  the  church 
take  his  resignation  as  Sunday-school  superin 
tendent?"  she  insisted. 

"Oh,  the  church  need  never  hear  of  that. 
Brother  Battle  must  not  accept  it.  Meanwhile, 
I'll  go  round  and  see  what  I  can  do  with  Taggy,"  I 
said,  rising  and  putting  on  my  things. 

I  found  her  lying  crosswise  upon  the  bed.  The 
shades  were  down  and  the  room  was  so  dark  I 
could  barely  see  her.  She  had  a  piece  of  brown 
paper  soaked  in  vinegar  on  her  head,  which  is 


168  A  Circuil  Rider's  Widow 

the  remedy  she  uses  for  sick  headaches.  Both 
feet  dangled  over  the  side  of  the  bed  as  if  she'd 
lost  the  use  of  her  legs.  Her  arms  were  spread 
wide,  at  right  angles  to  her  body,  which  made 
her  look  like  an  abbreviated  cross  in  a  gingham 
dress.  I  never  saw  anything  look  so  flat  unless 
it  was  a  dead  battercake  on  a  cold  griddle.  I 
doubt  if  there  is  a  married  woman  in  the  world 
who  does  not  know  that  supine  anguish  as  a 
familiar  experience.  No  matter  how  good  a  man 
is  to  his  wife,  she  will  fling  this  kind  of  fit  occa 
sionally  and  give  up  her  ghost.  Maybe  it  is 
because  he  scorned  a  favourite  dish  or  forgot  to 
kiss  her  when  he  left  the  house.  Any  little  thing 
will  bring  it  on  if  she's  in  the  fit-flinging  mood. 
Oh,  she  can  remember  the  time  when  he  never 
forgot  to  kiss  her,  and  when  what  she  cooked  for 
him  "tasted  like  manna  from  heaven!" 

"Sick  headache,  Taggy?"  I  asked,  bending 
over  the  footboard  of  the  bed. 

She  rolled  her  head  from  side  to  side  in  a  feeble 
negative. 

"Summer  complaint? "  I  asked. 

"No,"  she  moaned. 

"Then  it's  Lily  Triggs!"  I  announced  calmly. 

Her  mouth  went  up  in  the  middle  and  down  at 
the  corners.  Her  face  worked  until  it  looked  the 
little  old  worn-out  mask  of  a  great  tragedy. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  169 

"I  suppose  it's  all  over  town  by  this  time,"  she 
whispered,  rending  herself  with  a  sob. 

"No,  it  is  not,  but  it  will  be  if  you  don't  get  up 
from  here  and  take  a  hand  in  the  game,"  I  said 
coolly. 

"Game!"  she  wailed.  "I'm  a  good  woman, 
Sister  Thompson;  I  can't  plan  such  a  game." 

"That's  what's  the  matter  with  half  the  good 
women — they  leave  the  other  kind  to  play  it 
and  win  it!"  I  sniffed,  feeling  round  in  the  dark 
for  a  chair  to  sit  on. 

"What  can  I  do?"  she  asked. 

"You  can  get  up  from  here,  powder  your  face, 
curl  your  hair,  put  on  your  best  frock,  and  meet 
your  poor  John  Henry  with  a  smile  when  he 
comes  home,"  I  advised. 

"Oh!"  she  moaned,  as  if  I'd  asked  the  dead  to 
smile. 

"You  can  tell  him  you  are  sorry  you've  made 
such  a  goose  of  yourself  and  you  know  he  is  not 
to  blame,"  I  said  severely;  and  then  added:  "He 
is  not  to  blame.  You  are  the  one  at  fault." 

"I!"  she  cried,  as  if  I  had  pierced  her  with  hot 
irons.  "What  have  I  done  but  endure  and  endure 
for  months  in  silence?" 

"Yes,  you  are  and  I  am — all  the  decent  women 
in  this  town  are  to  blame  who  have  stood  by  like 
pale  worms  of  the  dust  and  allowed  a  pink-faced 


170  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

grass  widow  with  a  blond  wig  and  divorce-court 
morals  to  run  this  town  and  even  our  church  like 
a  Punch-and-Judy  show  for  her  own  amusement," 
I  repeated  indignantly. 

"Haven't  we  tried  to  get  rid  of  her?"  she 
sobbed. 

"No,  you  only  wanted  to  do  that.  What  you 
really  did  was  to  countenance  her  by  joining  her 
Suffrage  League,"  I  answered  accusingly. 

"But  I've  always  been  in  favour  of  suffrage  for 
women,  Sister  Thompson!" 

"So  have  I,  Taggy.  But  I  wouldn't  join  the 
angel  band  if  I  saw  the  devil  leading  it.  I  should 
know  there  was  a  nigger  in  the  woodpile  some 
where.  And  that's  what's  the  matter  with  the 
suffrage  in  this  country  now.  Too  many  women 
flirting  round  in  the  movement  who  should  be 
in  institutions  of  correction.  It  gives  the  men  a 
conscientious  but  dishonest  excuse  for  opposing 
the  ballot  for  the  rest  of  us."  I  said  all  this 
speaking  very  fast,  for  my  heart  burned  within 
me. 

Taggy  sat  up  and  looked  at  me.  She  was  a 
drolly  pathetic  figure  with  that  brown-paper 
plaster  still  sticking  to  her  forehead.  Her  eyes 
were  red,  her  lids  swollen  with  dark  circles  be 
neath,  and  her  neck  appeared  wofully  long,  like 
the  withered  stem  of  a  withered  rose.  Women 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  171 

do  demand  much  of  their  husbands  when  they 
expect  to  be  loved  for  just  their  virtues.  Some 
where  in  the  town  at  that  moment,  I  reflected, 
Lily  Triggs  was  prancing  about,  perfumed  with 
that  carnation  talcum  powder  she  uses,  with  a 
Madonna  fichu  spread  like  snow  over  her  shoulders 
and  the  toes  of  her  slim  slippers  peeping  in  and  out 
like  dusty  lily  petals  from  beneath  her  pretty  skirts. 

"What  can  I  do,  I  feel  so  helpless?"  Taggy  said 
presently. 

"  Stop  blaming  John  Henry.  A  woman  only  con 
fesses  defeat  when  she  accuses  her  husband  about 
another  woman,"  I  began,  for  I  saw  it  comforted 
her  to  have  me  take  sides  with  him. 

"You  don't  know  how  far  this  thing  has  gone. 
We  can  never  be  the  same  to  one  another  again. 
Oh ! "  she  wailed,  flinging  herself  back  in  another  fit. 

"Now,  Taggy,  you  just  stop  that  and  listen  to 
me,"  I  chided.  "You  have  the  situation  in  your 
hands.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  act,  and  act  right 
now!" 

"Well,  if  I  can,  I  will,"  she  answered,  recovering 
herself  with  a  kind  of  dying  sigh. 

"When  she  wrote  that  note  to  John  Henry " 

"  What !  How  did  you  know  she  had  written  to 
him?"  she  exclaimed,  horrified. 

"I  was  sitting  behind  the  choir  during  Easter 
services  and  saw  her  pass  it  to  him,"  I  explained, 


172  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

determined  not  to  give  the  preacher  and  his  wife 
away.  "Now  you  must  answer  it,"  I  began  again. 

"But  you  don't  know  what  was  in  it,  and  I'd  die 
before  I'd  show  it  to  a  living  soul!"  she  cried. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do.  She  said  she  hoped  some  day 
they'd  be  singing  this  beautiful  anthem,  "Jerusalem 
the  Golden,"  in  Paradise,  where  there  was  nothing 
sordid  or  earthly  to  keep  souls  from  sweet  and  per 
fect  communion — something  like  that,"  I  con 
cluded. 

"How  did  you  know  what  she  said  to  him?" 
Taggy  gasped  in  amazement. 

"I  know  Lily,  my  dear,  and  her  kind.  They  all 
deal  in  the  terms  of  celestial  purity  and  innocent 
love  when  they  fish  for  singing  trout  in  the  church 
choir.  It's  a  kind  of  phosphorescent  bait  they 
angle  with,  and  that  is  the  worst  they  do.  You 
never  will  catch  one  of  them,"  I  explained,  and 
went  on  about  the  letter  she  should  write. 

"Begin  it  this  way:  ' Dearest  Lily:  My  husband 
has  shown  me  the  note  you  have  written  to  him " 

"But  he  didn't,"  she  interrupted.  "If  only 
he  had!  He  concealed  it  from  me.  I  found  it 
tucked  away  in — in  his  watch  pocket,  wadded  up  as 
small  as  that!" 

"Naturally  he  didn't  want  you  to  see  it.  A  man 
saves  his  wife  the  offense  of  such  things,"  I  ex 
plained,  secretly  irritated  at  John  Henry,  but  de- 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  173 

termined  to  clear  him  of  his  sneaking  flirtation  for 
his  wife's  sake. 

However,  it  is  very  hard  to  inspire  the  right  cun 
ning  in  a  good  woman  whose  veracity  lacks  the 
elasticity  which  is  necessary  when  you  are  saving 
your  husband  from  a  lady  serpent  after  he  has 
ceased  to  struggle.  We  finally  composed  a  letter  to 
Lily  between  us,  I  furnishing  Taggy's  lisping,  stam 
mering  pen  with  the  words  of  wisdom.  It  read  thus : 

DEAREST  LILY: 

I  appreciate  the  beautiful  note  you  wrote  my 
husband  yesterday.  It  indicates  the  quality  of 
your  character  and  the  sweet  instincts  you  have  for 
celestial  companionship  in  Paradise,  where  we  are 
told  that  there  is  neither  marrying  nor  giving  in 
marriage  and  where  everybody  is  divorced. 

The  Suffrage  League  is  familiar  with  your  social 
and  economical  ideals  in  this  present  world,  but 
few  of  the  women  have  been  able  to  understand 
this  side  of  your  character  though  we  have  won 
dered  about  it  a  great  deal.  So  I  am  taking  the 
liberty  of  including  this  letter  you  sent  to  John 
Henry  as  a  part  of  the  program  of  our  next  Thurs 
day's  meeting  at  Mrs.  Warren's.  I  shall  read  it 
under  the  head  of  current  events,  which  you  know 
is  my  share  of  the  report.  Be  sure  and  come  for 
we  shall  need  you  to  explain  one  or  two  of  the  more 
spiritual  passages. 

Cordially  yours, 

TABITHA  LIPTON. 


174  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"But,"  cried  Taggy  in  despair  when  we  finished, 
"I  can't  read  that  scandalous  note  of  hers  to  fifty 
women.  It  would  ruin  John  Henry!" 

"You  had  better  ruin  him  than  leave  her  to  do 
it,"  I  snapped.  "But,  you  goose,  don't  you  know 
she  will  never  risk  it?  She'd  stick  her  head  in  the 
fire  first.  Take  my  advice,  send  this  note,  sit 
steady  in  the  boat  and  wait  for  what  happens." 

She  agreed,  as  a  relative  sometimes  agrees  to  a 
dangerous  operation  with  the  forlorn  hope  of  sav 
ing  a  dear  one's  life.  By  way  of  making  sure  that 
her  nerve  did  not  fail  her,  I  took  the  letter  to  the 
post-office  on  my  way  home  and  mailed  it. 

Sally  Parks  dropped  in  to  see  me  on  her  way 
home  from  the  league  Thursday. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?"  she  asked. 

"No.  Nothing  bad,  I  hope,"  I  answered,  feel 
ing  strangely  elated  and  guilty  at  the  same 
time. 

"Lily  Triggs  has  gone  to  a  sanitarium!" 

"Health  failed?"  I  inquired  innocently. 

"She's  a  nervous  wreck!"  Sally  answered  with  a 
sigh.  "You  know  how  hard  she  works,  takes  no 
care  of  herself.  Charlotte  thinks  the  choir  prac 
tice  for  that  Easter  anthem  was  the  last  straw." 

"I  expect  it  was,"  I  said  dryly. 

"We  can't  carry  on  the  work  of  the  league 
without  her  and  we  must  give  up  the  art  exhibit. 


"'TAKE  MY  ADVICE,  SEND  THIS  NOTE,  SIT  STEADY  IN 
THE  BOAT  AND  WAIT  FOR  WHAT  HAPPENS.'  " 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  175 

Everybody  was  so  distressed  this  afternoon  when 
Charlotte  broke  the  news  to  us,"  she  went  on. 

"Then  she  will  return?"  I  asked  coldly. 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  just  going  to  take  a  long  rest. 
She  hopes  to  be  able  to  carry  on  the  work  more 
vigorously  next  winter.  Meanwhile,  she  sug 
gested  that  we  drop  the  league  altogether.  She 
thought  it  would  be  better  to  do  nothing  than  to 
make  mistakes,  as  we  should  without  her  guiding 
hand.  So  we  disbanded  this  afternoon.  We  only 
had  a  social  meeting,"  she  explained  innocently. 

"Didn't  even  have  the  current  events  with  your 
tea?" 

"No.  Charlotte  said  she'd  promised  Lily  not  to 
move  hand  or  foot  in  the  work  until  her  return.  We 
all  thought  that  was  best." 

Then  she  looked  at  me  reproachfully,  for  I  was 
laughing. 

"I  can't  understand  you,  Mary  Thompson,"  she 
cried  indignantly.  "You  don't  seem  to  realize 
what  a  good  thing  the  league  is,  and  how  helpful 
Lily  has  been  in  so  many  ways.  She  is  so  capable. 
But  you  don't  appreciate  her!" 

"Yes,  I  do,  Sally.  I  recognize  her  gifts  and  I 
appreciate  her  more  than  you  do.  She's  just  too 
smart  for  a  little  place  like  Berton,"  I  answered, 
still  laughing  at  the  vision  I  had  of  Taggy  trem 
bling  with  fear  at  the  narrow  escape  she  had  had. 


176  A  Circuit  Rider9 s  Widow 

When  I  recall  the  men  and  women  who  have 
done  the  most  good  in  Berton,  they  are  not  those 
with  the  greatest  gifts  and  the  broadest  culture. 

But  they  are  the  simpler  kind,  who  believe  in  in 
fant  baptism  because  they  are  told  to  believe  in  it 
— or  in  infant  damnation,  for  that  matter,  if  they  are 
told  to  believe  in  that;  who  have  no  minds  of  their 
own  with  which  to  think  out  the  esoteric  problems 
of  life  and  death,  but  accept  these  as  the  shadows 
of  mysteries  through  which  they  must  pass  by 
faith.  They  inflict  wounds  and  bind  up  wounds, 
never  keeping  a  very  straight  account  of  who  is  to 
blame.  They  forgive  much,  and  are  ever  ready  to 
do  something  else,  sure  that  this  also  will  be  for 
given.  Not  reasonable — just  children,  you  under 
stand,  who  must  go  a  long  way  to  school,  but  who 
return  in  the  evening  of  their  days  to  their  Father's 
house,  every  one  spent,  very  tired.  Dull  scholars, 
having  missed  half  the  lessons  taught  in  the  hard 
curriculum  of  life,  but  all  finished  at  last.  I  say 
these  are  the  best  people  the  world  over,  though 
they  lead  no  great  reforms  and  start  no  revolu 
tions.  It  is  not  until  you  get  as  bad  and  as  wise 
as  Solomon  that  you  throw  down  your  pen  and 
cry,  "All  is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit."  There 
is  a  good  deal  of  vexation  mixed  with  the  foolish 
ness  of  faith,  but  one  thing  I  have  learned — never 
to  look  to  a  bad  man  like  Solomon  for  the  right 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  177 

wisdom,  and  never  to  follow  a  woman  whose  mind 
is  so  broad  her  morals  are  split,  no  matter  if  every 
thing  she  says  is  the  truth.  What  she  does  is 
bound  to  be  a  lie. 

The  period  following  Lily  Triggs'  departure  from 
Berton  was  the  last  term  we  had  in  our  church  of 
the  old-fashioned  Christian  life.  We  were  shortly 
to  be  tried  by  standards  so  old  that  they  were  new. 
We  were  to  experience  anguish  and  uncertainties 
which  rent  the  membership  as  it  had  never  been 
rent  by  our  feuds  and  transgressions,  and  from 
which  the  church  has  never  recovered.  But  I  say, 
for  a  season  we  returned  to  the  old  order.  The 
life  of  the  community  centred  once  more  about 
the  church  and  Sunday-school  and  the  Woman's 
Foreign  Missionary  Society.  The  Feminist  Move 
ment  appeared  to  have  lost  consciousness.  I 
could  spend  the  afternoon  visiting,  and  never 
hear  a  word  about  how  the  suffragists  lost  the 
election  in  New  Jersey  or  how  they  won  the  ballot 
in  some  Western  state.  The  choir  in  our  church 
expanded  and  contracted  from  time  to  time  ac 
cording  to  the  Sabbath-singing  mood  of  the  mem 
bers.  No  one  attended  choir  practice;  any  one 
who  chose  flatted  his  or  her  notes  on  Sunday. 
Still,  it  gave  me  a  restful  feeling  to  hear  Evalina 
Lipton  and  Sam  Parks  and  Susie  King  merely 
dragging  the  words  of  the  hymns  by  the  hind  legs 


178  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

of  the  tune — which  is  a  repose  I  never  had  when 
Lily  put  the  fancy  trills  into 

How  firm  a  foundation,  ye  saints  of  the  Lord, 
Is  laid  for  your  faith  in  His  excellent  word ! 

I  may  have  been  wickedly  prejudiced  against 
Lily.  I  have  set  down  in  these  pages  all  the 
evidence  we  ever  had  against  her  which  was  cir 
cumstantial.  But  many  a  man  has  been  convicted 
of  murder  upon  less  damaging  evidence. 

Quarterly  meetings  are  a  great  occasion  among 
Methodists,  especially  in  village  and  country 
churches.  For  three  months  the  pastor  takes  his 
texts  from  the  meeker  Scriptures  like  the  Gospel  ac 
cording  to  John,  but  when  the  presiding  elder 
comes  we  expect  a  change,  and  we  get  it.  Every 
body  brisks  up.  The  woman  who  is  to  have  the 
honour  of  entertaining  him  is  in  a  swivet  for  days 
beforehand.  She  cleans  her  house  from  attic  to 
cellar,  as  if  he  might  be  the  higher  critic  of  her 
domestic  life.  She  tears  the  guest  chamber  to 
pieces,  puts  it  together  again,  covers  the  puffed-up 
bed  with  her  fringed  counterpane  and  lays  her 
sacred  shams,  embroidered  with  "Holy  Night, 
Peaceful  Night,"  upon  the  pillows.  She  bakes 
cakes,  sets  yeast  to  rise  for  his  favourite  bread, 
and  offers  up  her  finest  chickens.  One  might 
think  she  prepared  for  a  regiment  instead  of  for  one 


A  Circuit  Rider  s  Widow  179 

man.  But  he  is  the  presiding  elder,  next  to  the 
bishop  in  the  Annual  Conference,  and  equal  as  a 
rule  to  several  men  when  it  comes  to  nourishing 
his  inner  man.  All  of  which  we  know  and  even  the 
fowls  know,  for  they  are  shy  of  their  own  roosting 
places  for  a  week  afterward. 

We  know  what  to  expect  on  Sunday,  a  "great 
sermon."  He  may  preach  the  same  one  four  times 
in  succession  at  the  different  churches.  But  you 
can  depend  upon  one  thing — he  will  take  his  text 
from  one  of  Paul's  Epistles.  Bishops  and  presid 
ing  elders  always  do.  The  character  of  Paul  seems 
to  appeal  to  them  more  than  the  other  apostles. 
The  pastor  will  have  been  giving  us  sermons  on 
"Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest,"  or  "Take  my  yoke 
upon  you,  and  learn  of  me  .  .  .  for  my  yoke 
is  easy,  and  my  burden  is  light,"  and  has  been  at 
great  pains  to  prove  the  truth  of  this  in  spite  of  the 
grave  mortal  suspicions  we  have  to  the  contrary. 
But  on  this  day  he  reads  the  opening  service  and 
then  comes  down  and  sits  in  the  congregation,  with 
the  air  of  a  famished  and  thirsty  man  who  is  about 
to  have  a  feast  of  good  things.  Then  the  elder 
takes  his  text  from  Paul.  And  he  begins  with  an 
interpretation  of  this  great  presiding  elder  of  the 
early  church.  If  he  is  himself  a  small,  nervous, 
bald-headed  man  he  is  sure  to  tell  us  that  Paul  was 


180  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

a  nervous  bald-headed  man.  If  he  is  a  large  man 
with  a  majestic  manner,  he  pictures  Paul  as  a 
giant,  with  the  power  of  presence  which  belongs 
only  to  great  souls.  In  any,  case  the  congregation 
often  realizes  that  there  is  a  striking  resemblance 
between  this  famous  itinerant,  who  had  "no  con 
tinuing  city,"  and  the  presiding  elder  of  our  dis 
trict. 

I  am  not  in  a  position  to  know,  being  strictly  a 
Methodist  in  my  church  experiences,  but  I  have 
wondered  if  the  Baptists  and  Presbyterians  mag 
nify  the  character  of  Paul  as  we  do.  And  I  am  not 
suggesting  the  least  criticism  of  the  bishops  and 
elders  in  our  church  who  choose  him  instead  of 
Peter  or  John  or  James  more  particularly  as  their 
pattern,  for  I  suppose  if  a  man  is  able  to  exalt  him 
self  into  the  Pauline  consciousness  he  is  more  apt 
to  live  like  Paul.  Certainly  many  of  them  sustain 
a  relation  to  the  itinerant  pastors  very  similar  to 
that  he  had  for  Timothy.  They  are  very  helpful, 
tender,  and  fatherly  to  them.  But  my  experience 
is  that  you  cannot  live  through  the  weekdays  of 
your  life  sustained  by  a  presiding  elder's  sermon, 
with  the  same  intimate  sense  of  personal  security 
which  comes  from  remembering  what  your  own 
two-by-four  pastor  tells  you. 

The  point  is  this:  When  the  presiding  elder 
preaches  upon  the  "great  fundamentals  of  the 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  181 

Christian  life,"  until  the  reverberations  ring  back 
from  your  eternal  hills,  when  the  church  is  filled 
with  half  the  town,  and  everybody  goes  away  to 
a  big  dinner  and  to  tell  what  a  great  sermon  it 
was — I  say  all  this  clothes  a  quarterly  meeting 
in  a  glamour  which  conceals  the  real  purpose  of 
it. 

This  comes  out  in  the  Quarterly  Conference, 
which  is  a  strictly  business  affair  even  if  it  is  held 
on  Sunday  afternoon.  The  pastor,  stewards,  and 
Sunday-school  superintendent  meet  at  the  church, 
with  the  presiding  elder  in  the  chair.  The  preacher 
in  charge  is  called  on  for  his  report.  He  mentions 
how  many  new  members  have  been  received,  how 
much  has  been  paid  on  salary,  how  much  on  church 
extension,  foreign  missions,  and  so  on.  The  Sun 
day-school  superintendent  does  the  same  thing, 
tells  how  much  the  children  paid  on  Children's 
Day,  so  much  for  missions,  so  much  for  literature, 
incidentals,  and  so  on.  The  stewards  do  the  same 
things.  They  add  up  the  totals.  The  elder  takes 
his  per  cent,  of  the  preacher's  salary,  puts  on  his 
hat,  and  catches  the  next  train  out  of  town. 

It  is  all  for  the  best,  of  course.  I  am  not  writ 
ing  this  history  to  criticise  the  government  of 
our  church.  But  my  belief  is  that  this  is  where 
the  likeness  between  a  presiding  elder  and  the 
Apostle  Paul  grows  so  faint  as  to  be  hardly  dis- 


182  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

tinguishable.  If  Timothy  had  a  wife  and  two 
children  when  he  was  pastor  of  the  church  at 
Ephesus,  and  received  only  nineteen  dollars  during 
the  first  three  months,  I  doubt  if  Paul  would 
have  come  along  as  presiding  elder  and  taken 
two  or  three  dollars  of  it  as  his  share.  I  have 
known  that  to  happen  here.  And  every  time  I 
see  an  elder  vaulting  through  the  empyrean  of 
eloquence,  with  the  Pauline  Epistles  in  one  hand 
and  the  Fundamentals  of  the  Christian  life  in  the 
other,  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  the  way  Brother 
Battle  looked  when  he  paid  the  elder  his  per 
cent,  of  that  nineteen  dollars. 

With  a  membership  of  two  hundred  and  fifteen 
this  church  paid  that  year  twenty-one  hundred 
dollars  all  told.  The  pastor's  salary  was  seven 
hundred  and  eighty  dollars.  The  presiding  elder 
received  one  hundred  and  sixteen  of  that,  leaving 
him  with  only  six  hundred  and  sixty-four  dollars. 
And  there  was  not  a  man  in  our  church  with  an 
income  equal  to  this  presiding  elder's  salary! 

Brother  Battle  had  a  wife  and  two  children. 
And  he  was  obliged  to  keep  a  horse.  He  was  also, 
by  the  laws  of  the  Methodist  Discipline,  obliged 
to  keep  out  of  debt. 

I  feel  about  the  financial  demand  of  our  church 
as  I  do  about  the  whale's  swallowing  Jonah — I 
do  not  understand  it  and  I  do  not  understand 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  183 

them.  I  lack  the  world  breadth  of  vision  required 
to  make  and  sustain  a  great  Christian  organization. 
So  I  just  accept  the  miracle  of  Jonah,  and  go  on 
collecting  dues  for  our  missionary  society,  leaving 
the  Lord  to  deal  with  the  appropriation  boards  as 
He  sees  fit  later  on.  Most  of  the  members  of 
this  church  feel  the  same  way.  Sometimes,  how 
ever,  I  have  been  discouraged  enough  about  con 
verts  in  heathen  nations  to  wonder  if  it  would 
not  be  less  expensive  if  we  sent  for  the  heathens 
and  educated  them  here  as  foreign  missionaries 
to  their  own  people,  instead  of  sending  our  own 
missionaries  to  them.  A  Christian  heathen  can 
live  on  much  less  than  one  of  our  missionaries. 
And  he  ought  to  do  as  much  good. 

But  this  is  no  affair  of  mine,  and  I  always  feel 
guilty  when  I  have  such  thoughts,  especially 
when  I  consider  the  raven-fed  faith  of  Methodist 
itinerants.  They  are  never  poor  in  spirit.  They 
are  rich  in  the  knowledge  they  have  of  long  years 
before  them  in  the  work.  They  keep  up  the 
simplest  and  most  childlike  defenses  against  pov 
erty,  being  always  desperately  poor.  They  have 
widows'  and  orphans'  funds  which  do  not  pay 
enough  to  bury  the  widows  and  orphans. 

But  you  cannot  starve  a  Methodist  preacher, 
nor  get  him  in  debt,  nor  tempt  him  to  steal  from 
his  own  church  collections,  and  you  will  never 


184  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

see  his  children  begging  bread.  I  have  known 
one  with  a  wife  and  baby  to  live  on  two  hundred 
and  forty  dollars  a  year,  and  save  enough  to  pay 
their  railway  fare  across  the  state  to  his  next  ap 
pointment.  No  man  can  doubt  the  miracle  of 
the  loaves  and  fishes  who  knows  anything  about 
the  miracle  in  domestic  economy  wrought  every 
year  by  Methodist  itinerants.  They  are  artlessly 
generous,  like  children,  and  strangely  confiding 
in  their  dealings  with  the  grasping  world.  Faith 
is  a  habit  of  mind  with  them  which  reaches  cheer 
fully  to  the  mercies  of  God  when  there  are  no 
mercies  in  sight,  and  back  again  to  any  man  mean 
enough  to  deceive  them.  I  have  never  known  one 
to  show  any  cunning  in  his  own  carnal  affairs  ex 
cept  when  it  came  to  a  horse  trade. 

The  Lord  himself  seems  to  inspire  a  Methodist 
preacher  with  supernatural  shrewdness  when  he 
goes  out  to  buy  a  horse.  He  invariably  returns 
with  a  sound  beast  and  something  to  boot  in  his 
pocket,  even  when  he  has  traded  a  hammer- 
headed,  goat-hammed  nag  to  the  other  fellow. 
This,  in  fact,  is  the  initial  step  in  the  transaction. 
He  picks  up  a  horse  which  appears  to  have  been 
assembled  from  different  zoological  periods — the 
lumbering  shanks  of  a  mastodon,  the  hunched-up 
back  of  a  dromedary,  and  the  ribs  of  any  old  skele 
ton;  a  sort  of  equine  hyperbole  of  sorrowful  nega- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  185 

tion.  But,  given  time,  he  will  always  swap  this 
thing  for  a  good  horse. 

We  had  an  example  of  this  shrewdness  and  the 
itinerant's  curious  guilelessness  in  our  own  pastor. 
Brother  Battle  acquired  in  some  manner  known 
only  to  the  Providence  which  assists  in  these 
matters  a  very  fine  gray  mare.  She  was  a  slender- 
legged,  thin-flanked  young  thing,  that  held  her 
head  like  a  proud  maiden,  carried  her  tail  airily 
over  the  dashboard,  and  spurned  the  earth  with 
her  feet.  If  she  had  a  fault  in  the  world,  which 
her  master  stoutly  denied,  it  was  pulling  the  peg 
out  of  the  fastening  on  the  barn  door  and  helping 
herself  to  what  she  found  inside. 

One  morning  I  heard  groans  accompanied  by 
loud  screams  of  anguish  from  the  barnyard  of  the 
parsonage.  I  ran  to  the  window  and  stood  in 
amazement  at  the  scene  across  the  street.  A  score 
of  men  hung  over  the  fence  before  the  barn.  They 
were  shouting  directions  to  a  dozen  more  who  were 
inside.  Sister  Battle  stood  in  her  kitchen  door 
looking  as  if  the  worst  had  happened  at  last.  The 
two  children  were  wailing  disconsolately,  with 
their  faces  pressed  to  the  pickets  of  the  back  fence. 
Brother  Battle,  wearing  his  long-tail  coat,  occupied 
the  centre  of  the  stage.  He  held  the  gray  mare 
by  the  bridle  and  was  walking  her  up  and  down 
with  great  difficulty,  for  the  horse  seemed  deter- 


186  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

mined  to  sit  down  at  every  step.  She  was  at 
least  twice  her  normal  size  round  the  middle. 
Her  head  drooped,  her  back  arched,  and  her  tail 
was  clasped  between  her  legs  in  a  kind  of  anguished 
horse  prayer. 

"Don't  let  her  lie  down!"  shouted  a  voice. 

"If  she  does  she's  gone!"  cried  another. 

"She's  as  good  as  dead  anyhow,"  growled  an 
other.  At  which  the  children  keened  their  noses 
to  the  wind  with  ear-piercing  shrieks. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  I  panted,  hav 
ing  run  across  the  street  and  joined  Sister  Battle. 

"Poor  Daisy  pulled  the  peg  out  of  the  door 
again  last  night  and  ate  all  the  peas  we  had  for  the 
cow!"  she  moaned. 

"How  many  peas  did  you  have?"  I  asked. 

"About  half  a  bushel,"  she  admitted  reluctantly, 
as  if  she  shrank  from  telling  how  drunk  Daisy  had 
made  herself  on  cowpeas. 

At  this  moment  the  horse  went  down.  She 
lay  with  her  legs  sticking  up  like  the  standard  of 
a  canvas  wagon  top. 

The  crowd  dispersed,  having  given  up  hope. 
Sister  Battle  and  I  hurried  into  the  house  bearing 
the  bereaved  children. 

Half  an  hour  later  Brother  Battle  came  in, 
wearing  the  redeemed  look  a  preacher  always  puts 
on  when  he  has  had  an  answer  to  prayer. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  187 

"Well,  we  are  going  to  save  her!"  he  answered. 
"I  have  secured  the  services  of  a  veterinary." 

"A  veterinary!"  I  exclaimed.  "There  is  not 
one  in  this  town." 

"He  has  just  moved  in — lives  some  distance  out 
on  a  farm,  he  told  me.  He  will  take  the  horse 
home  with  him  presently.  Says  she  will  be  as 
good  as  new  in  a  couple  of  weeks.  But  I  had  to 
pay  him  eleven  dollars!"  he  added  ruefully. 

"Eleven  dollars,  Joseph!"  gasped  Sister  Battle. 

"Yes.  He  wanted  more,  but  I  told  him  that 
was  all  I  had." 

Ten  days  later  they  received  a  note  from  the 
veterinary  saying  that  the  mare  had  died. 

Brother  Battle  made  application  at  once  to 
the  Asburg  Remounting  Association.  This  is  an 
organization  of  circuit  riders  in  this  Conference 
which  furnishes  one  hundred  dollars  toward  the 
purchase  of  another  horse  when  a  member  of  it 
loses  one. 

A  private  collection  among  the  sympathetic 
church  members  added  to  this  sum  fifty  dollars. 
And  Brother  Battle  started  in  high  feather  to  the 
neighbouring  town  where  a  young  mare  was  ad 
vertised  for  sale. 

The  horse  proved  to  be  his  own  mare,  Daisy! 
The  owner  of  the  stables  bought  her  from  a  band 
of  strolling  gypsies  ten  days  after  the  "veterinary" 


188  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

took  her  and  eleven  dollars  to  boot  from  our 
pastor. 

The  reports  of  the  Asbury  Remounting  Asso 
ciation  show  that  more  than  one  circuit  rider  has 
been  obliged  to  return  the  hundred  dollars  sent 
him,  owing  to  the  miraculous  reappearance  of  a 
horse  which  he  mourned  as  dead. 

All  told,  the  year  was  passing  peacefully,  as  if 
time  had  gone  back  and  joined  the  church.  Our 
lives  were  measured  once  more  to  us  by  our 
prayers  and  aspirations  toward  the  life  to  come. 
There  was  no  competition  of  other  interests  against 
those  of  the  church,  no  Suffrage  League  meeting 
to  interfere  with  the  attendance  of  the  members 
of  the  Woman's  Foreign  Missionary  Society,  no 
lectures  on  art,  no  committees  devoted  to  the 
solving  of  social  and  economical  problems.  Every 
thing  was  so  peaceful  that  we  might  have  thought 
Satan  had  restored  the  stolen  goods  of  the  spirit 
in  this  place.  The  people  drifted  back  into  their 
old  ways  of  attending  divine  services.  Our  prayer 
meetings  were  midweek  events.  Sometimes  at 
the  close  of  an  unusually  impressive  sermon 
Brother  Battle  would  say:  "All  those  who  desire 
to  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come,  or  long  for  a  deeper 
work  of  grace,  will  please  signify  the  same  by 
coming  forward  and  giving  their  hand  to  the  pastor 
during  the  singing  of  the  last  hymn." 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  189 

Then  Susie  King  would  bring  her  fingers  down 
upon  the  organ  keys  in  dolorous  chord.  The 
choir  would  clear  its  throat,  everybody  would 
rise,  and  we  would  all  begin  to  search  ourselves. 

Am  I  a  soldier  of  the  cross, 

A  follower  of  the  Lamb  ? 
And  shall  I  fear  to  own  His  cause, 

Or  blush  to  speak  His  name  ? 

Then  Susie  would  get  the  best  of  it  with  the 
organ  again,  and  we  would  look  about  and  wonder 
why  this  one  or  that  one  did  not  accept  the  in 
vitation. 

"Last  stanza!"  Brother  Battle  would  say,  look 
ing  very  mournful  because  nobody  accepted  the 
invitation.  And  we'd  begin  again: 

Sure  I  must  fight  if  I  would  reign; 

Increase  my  courage,  Lord  ! 
Til  bear  the  toil,  endure  the  pain, 

Supported  by  Thy  word. 

Then  Molly  Brown  would  slip  by  the  other 
people  in  her  pew  and  step  timidly  forward  to 
give  her  hand.  Molly  is  our  bellwether  ewe  in 
spiritual  adventures.  Once  she  moves  out  the 
rest  of  us  follow.  The  congregation  winds  itself 
in  and  out,  a  long  line.  Everybody  goes  up  and 


190  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

gives  some  kind  of  a  hand,  and  the  pastor  is  kept 
very  busy  saying  to  each  one,  "God  bless  you!" 
while  only  the  choir  is  left  to  sing  the  chorus: 

We  will  stand  the  storm, 
We  will  anchor  by  and  by  ! 

I  do  not  say  that  great  music  has  less  effect, 
but  I  doubt  if  any  grand  opera  ever  sung  has  so 
good  an  effect  upon  just  simple,  honest  folk  as  a 
service  like  this.  We  go  home  and  commit  our 
peculiar  besetting  sins  as  usual.  But  these  are 
only  the  hobnail  shoes  of  our  carnal  nature  by 
which  we  keep  our  feet  amid  the  affairs  of  this 
present  world.  We  know  that  somehow,  by  and 
by,  we'll  set  sail,  stand  the  storm,  and  anchor 
somewhere,  in  spite  of  a  few  little  deeds  done 
strictly  in  the  body.  This  is  faith.  And  we  are 
all  the  children  of  faith,  the  offsprings  of  immortal 
hopes,  more  than  we  are  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
the  flesh. 

No  great  poet  ever  had  a  lively  sense  of  humour, 
because  wit  is  the  blasphemy  of  high  emotions. 
And  no  great  saint  ever  had  a  sense  of  humour, 
either,  because  the  scenery  of  the  soul  is  incredibly 
majestic  in  its  lights  and  shadows.  Still,  the 
annals  of  every  church  are  filled  with  stories  ab 
surdly  out  of  drawing  with  this  dignity  of  eternal 
life.  It  is  because  we  are  still  in  the  childhood  of 


A  Circuit  Rider  s  Widow  191 

time,  subject  to  the  comic  accidents  of  our  own 
human  natures. 

We  had  the  usual  humorous  accidents  during 
this  peaceful  year.  First,  Emily  Peters  went  off 
somewhere  and  joined  the  Christian  Scientists. 
This  was  not  funny.  It  was  the  first  wise  thing 
I  ever  knew  Emily  to  do.  But  if  she  had  eloped 
with  a  Christian  Scientist  some  of  our  members 
would  not  have  been  more  scandalized  than  they 
were  when  the  news  came.  Then  Emily  came 
home  well  and  strong.  But  that  which  set  us  all 
to  grinning  was  the  way  she  talked,  in  the  lan 
guage  of  a  kind  of  dissolved  mysticism.  She 
who  had  been  the  dullest  and  simplest  of  women 
now  confounded  the  wise  with  her  new  evangelism. 
Sin  was  not  sin,  but  an  "error."  Neuralgia,  from 
which  she  had  suffered  tortures,  was  also  an 


"error." 


"If  I'd  only  known,  Sister  Thompson,"  she 
exclaimed  one  day,  "that  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
sickness,  disease,  sorrow,  and  death,  that  they  are 
all  errors!" 

"But,  my  dear,"  I  objected,  "surely  you  know 
we  must  all  die  some  time!" 

It  was  as  if  I  had  blown  a  strong  wind  against 
her  fragile  wings. 

"We  must  not  admit  death,"  she  returned  in 
tones  of  awe;  "that  is  the  greatest  error  of  all." 


192  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"You'll  admit  that  many  people  are  subject 
to  this  error,"  I  insisted. 

"We  must  not  think  of  death,"  she  answered, 
growing  very  nervous.  "Thinking  it  commits 
us  to  it." 

I  was  ashamed  of  myself,  as  if  I'd  cast  a  stone 
at  a  bluebird  perched  too  glaringly  in  the  snow. 

She  was  blessed  with  a  kind  of  premature  im 
mortality  of  the  mind,  so  I  went  no  farther,  even 
consenting  when  she  offered  to  give  me  absent 
treatments  for  rheumatism.  Both  my  knees  have 
grown  sadly,  stiffly  erroneous,  and  I  expected  no 
benefit;  but  my  thought  was  that  if  she  occupied 
her  mind  with  my  ailments,  she  was  not  so  likely 
to  backslide  into  her  own  neuralgia. 

And  there  was  the  incident  of  Sam  Parks' 
raincoat  being  up  for  prayers,  which  I  reckon 
was  one  of  the  most  horrifyingly  funny  things  that 
ever  happened  in  this  church.  When  penitents 
come  to  the  altar  for  prayers  in  our  church,  some- 
*imes  one  remains  still  kneeling  after  the  others 
are  gone  and  the  service  concluded.  In  this  case 
the  preacher  and  other  spirit-comforting  saints 
remain  and  pray  with  him  until  he  receives  the 
blessing,  which  is  sure  to  come  if  he  has  the  true 
wrestling-Jacob  courage. 

We  were  in  the  midst  of  our  revival  late  in 
August  of  that  year.  The  altar  was  filled  with 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  193 

penitents  at  the  close  of  each  service.  One  even 
ing  the  weather  was  threatening  and  Sarn  Parks 
brought  his  raincoat.  He  came  hi  early  and  hung 
it  over  the  knob  of  the  low  post  which  supported 
the  end  of  the  altar. 

When  the  penitents  returned  to  their  seats  as 
usual  after  the  concluding  prayer  Brother  Battle 
looked  about  him.  He  was  nearsighted,  but  he 
saw  dimly  what  he  supposed  to  be  a  particularly 
meek  penitent  kneeling  hi  the  shadows  at  the 
extreme  end  of  the  chancel. 

"Brethren!"  he  exclaimed,  raising  his  hand, 
"we  still  have  one  earnest  soul  kneeling  here  seek 
ing  forgiveness.  Let  us  unite  in  prayer  once  more 
for  him!" 

There  was  a  moment  of  ghastly  silence.  No  one 
knelt,  no  one  even  bowed  his  head.  Our  attention 
was  riveted  upon  Brother  Battle,  who  advanced 
toward  the  wofully  shrunken  form.  The  next 
moment  he  stretched  out  his  hand  benignly  and 
laid  it  upon  the  newel  post  draped  with  Sam's  coat. 
He  started  back  as  if  he'd  been  stung. 

"We  will  receive  the  benediction!"  he  announced 
sternly.  And  we  did,  but  the  Lord  must  have 
wondered  at  the  tartness  with  which  this  blessing 
was  asked. 

Sam  sneaked  out  and  went  home  in  the  rain,  not 
daring  to  claim  his  coat  after  what  had  happened. 


194  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

I  heard  a  man  say,  who  sometimes  stumbled 
over  his  wife's  footstool  in  the  dark,  that  the  devil 
entered  mere  things  as  often  as  he  did  men. 
Maybe  he  does,  for  I  have  known  more  than  one 
revival  to  freeze  after  some  such  incident  as  this. 
We  appear  to  be  hung  on  a  hair  trigger  spiritually, 
between  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous. 

Early  in  October  Lily  Triggs  returned  to  Berton. 
The  good  may  be  remembered  by  their  virtues,  but 
so  long  as  we  live  we  are  tagged  every  one  by  our 
chief  transgression.  If  a  man  drinks,  he  is  known 
as  a  drunkard  no  matter  if  he  is  a  banker,  or  a 
congressman,  or  a  loving  father  and  a  good  pro 
vider.  If  a  woman  talks,  she  is  known  as  a  gossip 
though  she  may  be  the  leading  spirit  in  all  good 
works.  The  fact  that  we  forget  or  forgive  our  own 
faults  makes  no  difference,  the  label  naming  them 
is  tacked  onto  our  reputations  like  an  April  Fool 
placard  on  a  man's  back. 

Lily  had  taken  such  a  long  rest  from  being  the 
lady  serpent  of  Berton  that  she  doubtless  supposed 
we  were  equally  refreshed  and  absentminded. 
But  the  very  sight  of  her  set  the  whole  church 
to  seething  and  hissing  speculations.  Would  she  go 
back  to  the  choir?  Would  she  assemble  the  league? 
Some  hoped  so;  some  prayed  fervently  that  she 
would  show  decent  discretion  and  keep  out  of  things. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  195 

She  did  not  keep  us  long  in  suspense.  She  made 
for  the  choir  on  the  next  Sabbath  day,  as  if  it  was 
like  singing  with  John  Henry  in  Paradise  just  to  be 
back,  though  Lipton  was  sitting  meekly  with  his 
wife  four  seats  in  the  rear. 

She  was  so  glad  to  see  everybody,  and  didn't  we 
think  she  was  looking  better?  In  fact,  she  was 
fatally  fresh  and  fair.  And  how  she  had  longed  for 
dear  old  Berton!  One  might  have  supposed  she 
was  the  idol  of  our  eyes,  to  hear  her. 

The  first  thing  she  did  was  to  call  a  meeting  of 
the  league  to  elect  a  delegate  to  the  National 
Suffrage  Convention  in  Washington.  Every  one 
thought  she  was  the  one  to  be  sent.  But  she'd 
been  away  so  long  she  wished  to  stay  quietly  at 
home.  Mrs.  Warren,  then!  Charlotte  was  splen 
did,  of  course,  she  explained,  but  she  wished  to 
propose  Mrs.  John  Henry  Lipton.  And  Taggy, 
who  was  not  there  to  defend  herself,  was  elected. 

"The  impudent  thing!"  she  cried  when  she 
heard  of  the  honour.  "I  wouldn't  leave  this  town 
while  she's  in  it  and  John  Henry  keeps  his  singing 
voice,  not  even  for  Paradise,  much  less  a  Suffrage 
Convention!" 

Meanwhile,  we  knew  before  Conference  that 
Brother  Battle  would  be  moved.  At  the  last 
quarterly  meeting  he  frankly  informed  the  board 
of  stewards  and  the  presiding  elder  that  he  was 


196  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

not  the  man  for  the  place,  because  of  "peculiar  con 
ditions"  which  he  found  beyond  his  control  as  a 
pastor,  and  he  asked  for  another  appointment. 
Every  man  present  knew  the  "peculiar  conditions" 
to  which  he  referred,  and  not  one  of  them  dared 
lift  his  voice  against  them. 

Thus  we  had  got  down  to  where  even  a  Metho 
dist  itinerant,  who  is  the  most  long-suffering  and 
patient  of  men,  was  anxious  at  any  cost  to  get 
away  from  this  church.  There  are  other  churches 
in  the  Conference,  similarly  afflicted,  from  which 
preachers  pray:  "Good  Lord,  deliver  us!" 


CHAPTER  V 

ON  MONDAY,  November  23,  1914,  the  list 
of  appointments  for  the  Methodist  preach 
ers  in  the  North  Georgia  Conference  ap 
peared  in  the  morning  paper.  The  first  thing  I 
saw  as  I  ran  my  eye  down  the  column  was  that 
Brother  Battle,  our  pastor,  had  been  sent  to  Cam- 
den.  Then  I  found  this  at  the  bottom  of  the 
column,  as  if  the  Conference  had  barely  remem 
bered  us  at  all:  "Felix  Wade,  Berton  Circuit." 

I  know  the  preachers  of  this  Conference  as  a 
tired  old  Sister  of  Mercy  knows  her  beads;  but  this 
was  a  new  one.  I  had  never  heard  of  him,  and  I 
was  troubled,  fearing  that  we  had  got  another 
theologue,  just  out  of  college.  My  anxieties  were 
not  relieved  when  Brother  Battle  returned  to  Ber 
ton  the  next  day. 

I  went  over  to  the  parsonage  at  once  to  find  out 
what  I  could  about  the  new  preacher.  Brother 
Battle  was  very  busy  getting  ready  to  leave  on  the 
evening  train,  Sister  Battle  having  packed  as  usual 
on  the  sly. 

He  said  he  did  not  know  Brother  Wade,  who  had 
been  transferred  from  another  Conference.  Yes; 
he  was  young.  No;  he  did  not  look  like  a  theo- 

W 


198  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

logue.  Well,  how  did  he  look,  then?  He  couldn't 
say;  he  was  not  good  at  describing  people.  No, 
Brother  Wade  did  not  ask  him  about  the  Berton 
Circuit,  he  answered,  laughing  when  I  pushed  him 
for  a  few  particulars.  He  knew  nothing  about 
him — not  even  whether  he  was  married. 

The  next  day  after  the  Battles  left,  the  Aid 
Society  met  at  the  parsonage. 

Naturally  we  talked  a  good  deal  about  the  new 
preacher  and  his  family.  Mrs.  Lip  ton  said  she 
hoped  his  wife  would  take  some  interest  in  the 
church,  which  was  more  than  Mrs.  Battle  had 
done.  Mrs.  Parks  said  she  knew  they  would  have 
a  baby — that  they  always  did,  even  if  it  was  a 
grandbaby;  and  she  had  sent  her  little  Jimmy's 
high  chair,  which  he  had  outgrown,  to  the  parson 
age  that  day.  She  said  it  made  her  feel  bad  to  see 
the  preacher's  baby  sitting  on  two  volumes  of 
Kitto's  "Commentaries"  in  a  chair  at  the  table,  and 
even  then  only  showing  his  head  and  spoon  over 
the  top  of  it.  She  waved  her  hand  at  the  high 
chair,  which  was  in  the  hall.  The  arms  were 
battered  where  little  Jimmy  had  registered  his 
spoon  vows  for  two  years.  The  paint  had  been 
kicked  off  the  foot  rest,  and  the  top  of  the  back  was 
scarred  where  he  had  tried  his  early  teeth  on  it. 

We  took  a  list  of  everything  in  the  house,  which 
is  an  investigation  of  character  the  preacher's  wife 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  199 

always  faces  after  her  back  is  turned.  Mrs.  Lipton 
discovered  that  a  sheet  was  missing.  The  parson 
age  had  four  new  sheets  and  one  old  sheet.  Where 
was  that  old  sheet?  She'd  like  to  know.  We 
found  it  wrapped  and  sewed  round  the  ironing 
board.  This  cleared  Sister  Battle  from  the  sus 
picion  of  theft,  but  not  from  the  charge  of  ex 
travagance. 

I  do  not  know  anything  more  pathetic  than  a 
parsonage  after  one  preacher's  family  has  moved 
out  and  before  the  next  one  comes  in.  It  is  so  for 
lornly  dingy  inside,  like  an  old  nest  used  year  after 
year.  A  sort  of  secondhand  home;  never  quite 
fresh — the  rugs  faded;  the  shades  hanging  to 
springs  that  refuse  to  roll  up  or  down;  the  china 
chipped;  a  little  dab  of  scraps  mixed  with  the  dust 
in  the  garbage  can,  showing  how  frugal  they  were 
of  the  very  crumbs  from  the  table,  and  the  last 
frantic  effort  of  the  pastor's  wife  not  to  leave  any 
dust  behind  to  accuse  her. 

We  looked  into  all  these  things,  as  was  our  right 
and  privilege.  Then  we  planned  what  we  could 
afford  to  do  for  the  new  preacher's  family.  We 
bought  a  doormat,  a  dishpan,  and  put  in  a  new 
stovepipe.  These  purchases  left  only  forty  cents 
in  the  treasury  of  the  Aid  Society.  We  made  a 
list  of  things  we  could  spare  for  the  pantry  from  our 
own  stores.  Mrs.  Peters  said  she  would  give  six 


200  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

glasses  of  jelly,  though  she  thought  Sister  Wade 
ought  to  return  the  glasses.  She  had  contributed 
jelly  last  year  and  the  moulds  were  not  returned. 
Mrs.  Sims  would  send  two  dozen  eggs.  Mrs.  Lip- 
ton  thought  she  could  spare  a  pound  of  butter. 
Mrs.  Warren  would  "see"  that  the  stewards  con 
tributed  the  "staples,"  meaning  flour,  lard,  sugar, 
and  coffee.  I've  noticed  that  no  one  ever  asso 
ciates  the  thought  of  meat  with  a  preacher's  diet 
when  we  are  stocking  the  pantry.  I  always  make 
a  cake  and  take  it  to  the  parsonage  the  day  they 
come. 

We  decided  not  to  wash  the  windows,  because 
the  weather  was  cold  and  because  Mrs.  Warren 
said  she  thought  the  preacher  ought  to  wash  his 
own  windows.  We  went  home,  having  done  the 
best  we  could  and  believing  we  had  three  more  days 
before  the  Wades  came  to  get  things  ready  for  them. 

I  was  in  the  kitchen  Saturday  morning  mixing 
the  cake  when  the  telephone  bell  rang.  I  knew  it 
must  be  Sally  Parks,  for  I  never  faced  a  crucial 
moment  in  my  domestic  life,  when  the  soup  was 
about  to  boil  over  or  when  I  had  both  hands  in  the 
biscuit  dough,  that  she  didn't  call  and  keep  me 
at  the  'phone  until  the  worst  had  happened. 

"Is  this  you,  Sister  Thompson?"  she  began  in 
quavering  tones. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  201 

"  Yes.     How  are  you  this  morning  ?  "  I  answered. 

"  I'm  not  very  well.     I  feel  strange  and  excited." 

She  always  felt  abnormal  or  subnormal;  so  I 
waited  without  spending  my  sympathy. 

"Have  you  seen  him?"  she  began  again. 

"Seen  who?" 

"The  new  preacher.     He's  come!" 

"What's  that?" 

"I  say  Brother  Wade's  here;  came  in  a  car,  with 
a  servant  and  a  bulldog." 

"A  servant  and  a  bulldog!     Where's  his  wife?" 

"I  reckon  she'll  be  in  later.  They  say  he's  got 
a  houseful  of  children.  Sister  Lip  ton's  just  called 
to  say  that  Sister  Warren  saw  him  pass  her  house. 
Said  it  looked  to  her  as  if  he  had  a  piano  in  the 
back  of  the  car.  She  knew  it  was  the  preacher 
because  Sister  Peters  called  up  directly  and  said 
they  stopped  at  the  parsonage." 

I  hung  up  the  receiver  without  ceremony  and 
hurried  to  the  window.  I  always  keep  the  cur 
tains  drawn  so  as  to  see  in  secret  what  is  going  on 
in  public. 

A  high-powered  gray  car  stood  in  front  of  the 
parsonage  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 
What  I  should  call  an  extremely  high-powered 
bulldog  sat  on  the  seat  behind  the  windshield. 
And  not  another  living  creature  was  in  sight. 
He  was  a  white  dog,  laced  up  in  brass-studded 


202  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

harness.  And  he  looked  as  if  Nature  had  mashed 
him  in  the  face.  His  nose  pointed  straight  up. 
His  lower  lip  sagged  and  showed  his  teeth.  He 
had  no  ear  at  all  on  one  side,  and  the  other  was 
only  the  remnant  of  an  ear.  His  whole  appear 
ance  was  that  of  evil  majesty.  If  ever  I  saw  rank 
heresy  in  my  life,  it  was  that  dog  sitting  in  that 
car,  which  rumbled  and  snored  like  a  rich  man  in 
his  sleep,  in  front  of  our  Methodist  parsonage ! 

Before  I  could  recover  from  my  amazement  a 
heathen  came  down  the  steps  from  the  house, 
hurried  to  the  car,  and  loaded  himself  with  luggage, 
which  he  carried  in. 

Presently  smoke  shot  up  from  one  of  the  chim 
neys  in  long,  snarled  masses.  I  could  hear  doors 
banging,  the  thumps  and  thunders  of  a  terrific 
adjustment  going  on,  as  if  a  strange  and  powerful 
presence  was  making  room  for  himself  in  that 
small  place.  All  this  time  that  dog  sat  with 
his  nose  keened  to  the  wind,  his  ragged  ear  laid 
flat,  and  his  lower  teeth  showing,  as  if  he  wore  a 
false  plate  that  didn't  fit. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  stood  there,  waiting 
for  a  glimpse  of  the  preacher  and  craving  to  know 
what  was  going  on  in  that  parsonage,  where  I 
had  known  for  nearly  forty  years  everything  that 
did  transpire  there. 

The  heathen  skipped  in  and  out  through  the 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  203 

back  door,  nosed  everything  in  the  backyard,  as 
if  he  couldn't  find  what  ought  to  be  there.  It's 
one  thing  to  take  up  missionary  collections  year 
in  and  year  out  for  the  salvation  of  the  heathen, 
but  it's  another  thing  altogether  to  see  him  frisk 
ing  round  your  parsonage  as  if  he  owned  it.  That 
Chinaman  in  the  backyard  didn't  look  any  more 
in  keeping  with  a  Christian  minister  than  the 
bulldog  did  in  the  front  yard. 

While  I  was  considering  this  the  figure  of  a 
man  appeared  at  one  of  the  windows.  Never 
before  have  I  longed  for  the  sinful  luxury  of  opera 
glasses!  I  could  make  out  that  he  was  tall  and 
clean-shaved,  but  I  could  not  distinguish  his 
features.  He  appeared  to  be  staring  straight 
across  the  street  at  the  window  where  I  stood.  No 
woman  is  willing  to  be  judged  by  the  eye  with 
which  she  peeps,  or  the  ear  she  flirts  to  a  keyhole; 
so  I  drew  the  curtains  together  gently  as  a  zephyr 
stirs  them  in  summer  weather  and  retired  to  the 
kitchen. 

The  competition  between  Taggy  Lipton,  Char 
lotte  Warren,  and  myself,  as  to  who  shall  make  the 
acquaintance  of  the  new  preacher  first,  has  always 
been  strong  and  at  times  heated.  If  Mrs.  Lip- 
ton  wins  she  tells  him  all  the  bad  news  in  the 
church,  which  members  he  can  trust,  and  men 
tions,  by  description  rather  than  by  name,  those 


204  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

whom  she  considers  stumbling-blocks  or  Pharisees 
or  busy  bodies.  If  Mrs.  Warren  gets  the  first 
chance  at  him  she  tells  him  how  to  manage  the 
church  and  lets  him  know  the  "awful  mistakes" 
his  predecessor  made.  But  if  I  come  in  a  neck 
ahead  I  tell  him  what  a  good  people  he  has  come 
to  serve,  how  devoted  we  are  to  the  preacher, 
ever  ready  to  hold  up  his  hands;  leaving  it  with 
him  to  discover  how  difficult  we  are  and  how  gifted 
with  all  human  perversities. 

Owing  to  the  fact  that  my  house  is  nearest  the 
parsonage,  and  to  the  pardonable  eagerness  of 
my  spirit  to  be  up  and  doing,  I  am  usually  the 
first  one  to  meet  him. 

My  interest  was  quickened  by  what  I  had  seen, 
and  more  particularly  by  what  I  had  not  seen. 
I  was  concerned  to  know  what  manner  of  man 
this  was,  come  to  preach  the  Gospel  with  a  fine 
car,  a  bulldog,  and  a  heathen  for  his  personal  at 
tributes. 

It  is  the  custom  here  for  the  preacher  to  come 
first,  while  his  wife  makes  a  visit  to  her  folks.  I 
reflected  that  this  was  all  the  better  reason  to 
bestir  myself  in  Brother  Wade's  behalf,  and  to 
go  over  at  the  earliest  possible  moment  to  see 
whether  he  was  comfortable.  Before  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon  I  fixed  up  a  little,  not  too  much,  took 
the  cake,  and  crossed  the  street  to  the  parsonage. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  205 

The  heathen  opened  the  door.  And,  seeing 
the  cake,  I  think  he  was  for  sending  me  back  to 
the  kitchen,  but  I  knew  my  place;  so  I  marched 
past  him  into  the  parlour. 

"Tell  Brother  Wade  Mrs.  Thompson  wishes  to 
see  him,"  I  said,  setting  the  cake  on  the  centre 
table  and  turning  upon  him  with  Christian  au 
thority  in  my  eye. 

He  bowed,  strained  out  a  sound  that  resembled 
a  sniff  or  a  grunt,  or  a  word  which  had  not  yet 
grown  into  language,  and  disappeared. 

I  looked  about  me  with  the  avid  curiosity  of  a 
woman  who  is  alone  among  somebody  else's  things. 

The  room  was  the  same  little  dingy  parlour  with 
golden-oak  furniture.  Yet  it  was  not  the  same. 
The  sofa  was  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  fire,  as  if 
it  meant  to  keep  warm  and  enjoy  itself.  The 
chairs  reared  back,  as  if  they  might  cross  their 
legs  presently.  A  gun  leaned  against  the  wall  in 
one  corner.  Fishing  rods,  reels,  and  nets  littered 
the  floor.  Kitto's  "Commentaries  on  the  Old  and 
New  Testaments,"  which  have  been  the  whole  of 
the  parsonage  library  for  years,  were  packed  into 
the  bottom  shelf  of  the  bookcase.  And  the  shelves 
above  were  glowing  with  volumes  bound  in  as 
many  colours  as  Joseph's  coat. 

This  was  no  longer  the  place  where  children 
played  before  the  fire;  where  a  man  in  a  rusty, 


206  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

long-tailed  coat  tramped  back  and  forth  prepar 
ing  his  Sabbath  sermon  to  the  shrill  music  of 
these  young  voices.  I  missed  the  pastor's  wife's 
workbasket.  And — bless  my  soul — what  had 
become  of  the  pictures  on  the  walls?  The 
Aid  Society  spent  three  dollars  for  them — "The 
Martyr's  Crown,"  "  Clinging  to  the  Cross,"  and  a 
really  splendid  coloured  print  of  Wycliffe  being 
burned  at  the  stake.  They  were  not  there. 

Suddenly  I  saw  something.  A  very  large  pic 
ture  hung  above  the  mantel.  It  inhabited  the 
room,  gave  it  a  meaning  and  a  majesty  that  were 
new  and  strange.  The  colours  were  subdued  and 
very  rich,  like  memories  that  blend  and  soften 
beneath  the  tone  of  time.  The  background  be 
neath  a  distant  sky  was  filled  with  the  figures  of 
men  and  women  clad  in  New  Testament  clothes. 
They  pressed  forward  with  eager,  listening  faces. 
In  the 'foreground  stood  Jesus,  with  a  young  man, 
who  kneeled  before  him. 

I  recognized  the  scene  portrayed  as  that  of  the 
"rich  young  ruler,"  who,  having  everything  else, 
desired  eternal  life.  It  was  all  there  in  the  picture 
— not  the  words,  but  the  meaning.  The  majesty 
and  terrible  tenderness  in  the  face  of  Jesus;  the 
pride,  wealth,  and  respectability  of  the  world 
kneeling  at  His  feet  in  the  figure  of  this  young 
man,  who  seemed  already  to  have  heard  the 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  207 

command:  "Sell  whatsoever  thou  hast,  and  give 
to  the  poor,  .  .  .  and  come,  and  take  up 
thy  cross,  and  follow  me."  The  face  of  the  kneel 
ing  man  bore  that  expression  which  is  thus  inter 
preted:  "He  went  away  grieved;  for  he  had  great 
possessions." 

Never  before  have  I  seen  such  a  picture  in  a 
Methodist  parsonage.  The  men  who  live  in  them 
usually  have  had  no  great  possessions;  so  they 
find  it  easy  to  follow  the  Prince  of  an  invisible 
Kingdom. 

I  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  trying 
to  offset  the  impression  of  the  other  things  scat 
tered  about,  the  meaning  of  the  fishing  tackle 
and  the  variegated  library  blooming  above  Kitto's 
"Commentaries,"  with  the  significance  of  this  pic 
ture,  when  the  door  opened  behind  me  and  I 
stood  in  the  presence  of  our  new  pastor. 

He  was  tall;  not  spare,  but  slender.  His  brown, 
coarse  hair  was  so  thick  it  rolled  opulently  from 
the  part.  The  bones  of  his  face  showed  beneath 
the  smooth  tanned  skin  like  a  steel  frame,  delicate, 
and  strong.  He  had  the  lips  of  a  man,  pleasing 
and  wistful;  but  he  had  the  clear,  passionless  blue 
eyes  of  a  priest.  His  clothes,  not  clerical,  fitted 
him  with  a  kind  of  elegance.  They  belonged  to 
him  like  a  worldly  charm,  as  if  he  had  not  chosen 
his  tailor  from  among  the  brethren. 


208  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

All  this  I  saw  in  the  first  uplook  I  had  at  him 
over  the  top  of  my  spectacles  as  he  entered  the 
room. 

"Mrs.  Thompson?"  he  said,  advancing. 

"Yes;  and  you  are  our  new  pastor?"  I  returned, 
forgetting  to  mention  the  cake  or  to  ask  him  about 
his  wife  and  children;  in  fact,  forgetting  every 
thing,  because  he  looked  at  me  so  hard — as  if  he 
had  seen  me  before  but  could  not  remember  where. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  drop  in  like  this,"  he  said, 
still  holding  my  hand  and  leading  me  to  a  seat  on 
the  sofa  in  a  manner  that  made  me  wish  I  had 
worn  my  best  dress. 

Then  he  drew  his  chair  up,  sat  down,  and  bent 
a  little  forward  to  me,  which  somehow  implied  a 
compliment.  I  do  not  know  whether  he  meant 
it  for  my  Dorcas  soul  or  for  just  the  old  woman 
who  had  come  out  in  a  blustering  wind  and  a 
drizzling  rain  to  welcome  him;  but  I  felt  suddenly 
the  faded  femininity  of  my  years  flame,  as  if  more 
of  me  had  been  recognized  and  revered  than  usual. 
I  knew  I  had  two  red  spots  on  my  cheeks.  The 
corners  of  his  mouth  deepened — merely  two  ends 
of  a  smile.  And  somehow  I  knew  he  had  wished 
me  those  little  faded  pink  roses  among  the  wrinkles. 

"I  just  thought  I'd  come  right  over  and  see  if 
there  is  anything  I  can  do  to  make  you  comfort 
able,"  I  explained  nervously. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  209 

"Well,  you've  done  the  only  thing  I  needed. 
You  came,"  he  answered. 

Preachers,  as  a  rule,  are  offish  to  women.  They 
will  feed  out  of  your  hand  and  keep  their  distance 
at  the  same  time.  The  Saint  Paul  in  them  never 
really  trusts  us.  That  is  why  I  say,  and  have  al 
ways  said,  that  if  a  preacher  gets  into  trouble  with 
one  the  fault  is  more  hers  than  his.  I  have 
noticed  time  and  again  that  the  pastors  we  have 
here  prefer  to  sit  more  than  two  arms'  lengths  from 
the  best  female  saint  in  this  church,  no  matter  how 
old  she  is  in  her  virtues  and  Christian  fortitude. 
Even  Lily  Triggs  couldn't  get  near  enough  to  sing 
out  of  the  same  book  with  Brother  Worthen. 
Thus,  I  was  not  prepared  for  Brother  Wade's  easy 
manner.  I  was  flustered. 

"It's  a  habit,"  I  said  primly. 

"To  visit  the  preacher?" 

"And  his  family;  yes." 

"Well,  keep  it  up." 

I  shot  a  glance  at  him  side  wise.  His  face  was 
turned  away,  as  if  he  had  something  on  it  not  for 
me  to  see.  But  I  saw  something  else — a  cowlick 
on  the  crown  of  his  head;  a  little  place  up  there 
where  the  hair  stood  up,  denying  the  order  of 
things  inside.  In  the  days  to  come  I  recognized  it 
as  the  place  in  this  man  where  the  boy  of  him  still 
lived,  impish,  fantastic,  and  never  quite  conse- 


210  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

crated.  Sometimes,  when  he  would  be  preaching 
and  bent  his  head  forward  for  emphasis,  I  could 
see  the  minister  of  God  in  front  and  that  rebellious 
boy  of  him  behind,  with  his  hair  tousled. 

But  now  the  only  thing  I  understood  was  that 
there  was  something  in  the  situation,  which  charmed 
and  amused  him,  that  was  concealed  from  me. 

We  went  on  talking.  I  felt  that  I  was  being  led 
away  from  the  things  I  wished  to  say,  and  the 
things  he  ought  to  know  about  the  church,  to  some 
thing  else  he  preferred  to  know. 

I  have  looked  many  a  preacher  through  and 
through  at  a  glance.  I  can  tell  the  minute  I  lay 
eyes  on  one  whether  his  Gospel  will  be  meek  or 
militant.  But  this  was  the  first  time  I  ever  had 
one  to  look  me  through  as  if  he  knew  me  from  my 
a-b-ab,  to  my  nether  transgressions.  It  was  like 
having  my  spiritual  pockets  picked  when  I  had 
come  to  deliver  a  welcome  address  and  put  him  on 
his  feet  in  the  church.  I  felt  a  pardonable  irrita 
tion;  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  say  what  I'd  come 
to  say,  if  it  was  the  last  thing  I  ever  did.  I  waited 
with  repressed  energy  for  the  next  pause  in  the  con 
versation,  which  was  so  polite  as  to  be  almost 
secular.  The  moment  it  occurred  I  shot  in: 

"We  are  glad  to  have  you  with  us  this  year, 
Brother  Wade." 

"Thank  you.     I  am  delighted  with  my  appoint- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

ment.  Berton  Circuit  has  quite  a  reputation  in 
the  Conference,"  he  answered,  smiling,  but  with 
such  directness  I  knew  some  one  had  been  tattling. 

"Yes;  but  you  mustn't  be  discouraged.  This 
church  needs " 

"How  many  inhabitants  has  Berton?"  he  in 
terrupted. 

"Fifteen  hundred,  counting  the  coloured  people; 
about  a  thousand  whites.  The  membership  of  our 
church " 

"How  many  churches?"  cutting  me  off  again; 
not  rudely,  but  like  a  physician  who  sticks  a  fever 
thermometer  in  your  mouth  when  you  want  to  go 
on  telling  him  how  you  feel. 

"Three  for  the  white  people,  not  counting  Olive- 
Vine,"  I  answered. 

"Why  not  count  Olive- Vine?" 

"It  belongs  to  the  Primitive  Baptists,  and " 

"Four  churches,"  he  went  on,  "for  a  thousand 
people!  And  what  is  the  aggregate  member 
ship?" 

I  just  folded  my  hands  and  looked  at  him.  Did 
he  think  he  was  called  to  all  of  them?  I  was 
tempted  to  tell  him  he'd  do  well  to  fix  his  attention 
on  the  one  congregation  he'd  been  sent  to  serve;  but 
I  bore  with  him. 

"The  Methodists  have  two  hundred  members," 
I  answered  patiently;  "more  than  the  Presby- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

terians  and  Baptists  put  together.  But  we  hear 
that  there  are  only  twenty  on  the  roll  at  Olive- 
Vine." 

"What  do  these  churches  pay,  all  told,  for  mis 
sions,  preachers'  salaries — everything?" 

"The  Methodists  lead,  of  course.  Since  Ber- 
ton  has  been  made  a  half  station,  with  two  services 
a  month,  we  pay  six  hundred  dollars  a  year,  every 
thing  included,  the  Baptists  nearly  as  much,  and  I 
hear  the  Presbyterians  collect  more;  but  that's  be 
cause  they  have  two  or  three  rich  members.  No 
body  knows  what  the  pastor  of  Olive- Vine  gets,  but 
it's  all  the  people  give,  because  they  don't  believe 
in  missions,  or  Sunday-schools,  or  anything  but 
close  communion,  cold-water  baptism " 

"And  in  Jesus,  the  Saviour  of  Men,"  he  put  in  so 
quickly  that  I  felt  rebuffed. 

"I  begin  to  see  how  things  are,"  he  mused,  not 
noticing  that  I  had  snatched  off  my  spectacles  and 
was  looking  at  him  with  a  strictly  doctrinal  stare. 
"Four  churches,  worth,  say,  thirty  thousand  dol 
lars;  four  hundred  members,  contributing  two 
thousand  dollars  for  the  support  of  the  church, 
missions,  and  ministry.  Probably  one  thousand 
more  for  repairs  and  incidentals.  That's  about 
five  dollars  a  head,  counting  the  women  and 
children." 

"But,  Brother  Wade,  they  don't.     There  are 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  213 

many  members  who  give  nothing,  and  as  many 
more  who  give  almost  nothing." 

"  That  would  probably  bring  the  tax  up  to  twenty 
dollars  on  an  average  for  those  who  do  pay." 

"Tax!  Tax!"  I  exclaimed,  scandalized  at  the 
use  of  this  secular  word  about  the  Lord's  moneys. 

"What  about  your  school?"  he  asked,  paying  no 
attention  to  what  I  wanted  to  go  on  saying. 

I  told  him  we  had  a  fine  school,  with  three 
teachers. 

"They  should  receive  about  three  thousand  dol 
lars  a  year,  at  the  very  least,"  he  mumbled  to  him 
self. 

"They  are  thankful  to  get  two  thousand,"  I  cor 
rected.  "The  state  doesn't  pay  its  teachers  very 
well,  you  know." 

"And  the  people  cannot  if  they  are  taxed  three 
thousand  for  preachers  and  missions." 

To  hear  him,  one  might  think  a  bailiff  took  the 
Conference  collection!  My  idea  of  a  Methodist 
itinerant  is  that  he  should  attend  to  his  own  busi 
ness  and  keep  out  of  all  the  other  businesses 
round  him.  I  was  about  to  take  a  peck  at  Brother 
Wade,  by  telling  him  so  for  his  own  good,  when  he 
began  again: 

"Any  places  of  amusement?" 

"  No,  thank  heaven !  You  will  not  have  theatres 
or  dance  halls  to  contend  with  here." 


214  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"Well,  we  must  do  something  about  that." 

"Don't  you  think  of  such  a  thing!"  I  exclaimed, 
deeply  troubled. 

"Well,  I  won't— now,"  he  laughed. 

I  felt  during  the  next  few  minutes,  as  we  talked 
of  any  little  thing,  that  he  was  smoothing  my 
feathers;  that  he  was  aware  of  the  vague  anxieties 
in  my  mind.  Though  I  was  still  troubled,  I  felt 
strangely  soothed  and  confidential.  And  before  I 
could  fly  up  out  of  reach  he  looked  at  me  as  if  he 
had  just  found  me  in  an  old  hymn  book  and 
wanted  to  hear  the  tune. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself,"  he  suggested  gently. 

"There's  nothing  to  tell.  I  was  born  here;  I've 
grown  up  and  grown  old  in  the  church." 

"Not  in  the  world?" 

"No;  I've  never  seen  much  of  the  world,"  I  be 
gan. 

Then  a  queer  thing  happened  to  me.  I  looked 
up  at  him,  this  man  with  the  eyes  of  a  priest,  and 
the  mouth  drawn  across  his  face  like  a  secret  he 
kept,  and  the  boyish  cowlick  on  his  head,  giving 
him  away.  I  was  moved  to  tell  him  something 
I'd  never  confessed  before,  not  even  to  William. 

"But,  Brother  Wade,  sometimes  I've  been 
tempted.  I've  wanted  to  see  things  no  Christian 
woman  ought  to  see,  and  to  hear  things — and  to  do 
things !  I  can't  get  over  wishing,  just  wishing " 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  215 

With  that,  my  mouth  got  the  best  of  me  and 
primped  up  so  I  couldn't  get  it  down.  I  began  to 
pat  my  foot,  which  is  a  nervous  habit  I  have,  and 
to  pat  my  knee,  which  I  always  do  when  I  pat  my 
foot.  But  not  another  word  could  I  get  out. 

"I  know,"  he  said  kindly;  "but  you  never  did 
any  of  those  things." 

"Well,  I  couldn't,  you  see,  here  in  Berton. 
There  are  so  few  sins  a  respectable  woman  could 
commit,"  I  answered,  laughing,  because  he  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed  like  a  human  being. 

"And  you've  always  stood  by  the  pastor,"  he 
went  on,  grinning  as  if  he  accused  me  of  that. 

"If  only  you  knew  what  I've  endured  holding  up 
the  hands  of  preachers!"  I  exclaimed,  not  realizing 
I  was  talking  to  one,  until  he  laughed  again. 

"I  can  imagine  that  has  been  no  easy  job." 

"Not  a  job.  It  was  my  duty,"  I  corrected. 
"They've  all  been  good  men.  But  this  is  a  poor 
charge;  so  we  get  the  young  ones  before  they  know 
how  and  the  old  ones  when  they  are  about  to  quit. 
The  young  ones  whoop  and  rant  until  they  come 
down  with  the  laryngitis,  not  realizing  that  the 
Gospel  is  a  still  small  voice,  and  that  they've  got 
to  save  themselves  to  preach  it  for  the  next  forty 
years. 

"Or  they  do  right  in  the  wrong  place,  which  al 
ways  upsets  the  stewards  or  hurts  the  women's 


216  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

feelings.  Or  they  don't  visit  enough;  or  they 
.preach  heresy  without  knowing  it's  heresy.  And 
the  old  ones — well,  you  know  how  it  is.  They've 
outgrown  the  ways  of  youth.  They  don't  draw 
the  young  people,  and  they  take  the  rest  of  us  for 
granted,  like  an  easy  chair  they  drop  into  after  a 
long,  long  journey.  I  don't  blame  'em.  But  it's 
been  hard  on  this  church  and  I  reckon  it's  been 
harder  on  them." 

He  sat  silent,  staring  in  the  fire.  I  thought  I'd 
discouraged  him,  so  I  added : 

"But  their  wives  have  been  a  great  help  to  them. 
It's  years  since  we  had  a  single  man,  which  is  a 
mercy.  We  used  to  get  'em  so  young  and  so  poor 
they  couldn't  marry,  and  we  had  to  look  after  'em, 
even  to  see  whether  they  kept  their  feet  dry  and 
took  medicine  when  they  had  a  bad  cold." 

He  made  no  reply;  just  looked  round  at  me  as  if 
I'd  caught  him  with  his  head  wet  from  going  in 
swimming  on  the  sly. 

Then  I  got  up  to  go,  and  caught  sight  of  Jimmy 
Parks'  little  old  high  chair  in  the  hall,  which  re 
minded  me  of  his  wife  and  children. 

"When's  Sister  Wade  coming?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  slowly,  like  a  man 
breaking  bad  news,  cutting  his  eye  at  me.  "The 
fact  is,  I'm  not  married." 

"Not  married!"  I  fairly  screamed.     "Why,  we 


"  'NOT  MARRIED!   i  FAIRLY  SCREAMED.    WHY,  WE  HEARD 

YOU  HAD  A  WIFE  AND— AND  A  HOUSEFUL  OF  CHILDREN'  " 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  217 

heard  you  had  a  wife  and — and  a  houseful  of 
children." 

"Mistake!"  he  said,  grinning. 

"But  we  haven't  had  a  bachelor  preacher  for 
twenty  years!  We've  got  a  parsonage.  That 
entitles  us  to  a  pastor  with  a  wife." 

All  this  came  out  indignantly,  before  I  could 
stop,  I  was  so  taken  aback. 

"I'm  sorry.  But  it  may  not  be  so  bad  as  you 
fear.  I'll  do  the  best  I  can.  If  I  get  cold  feet, 
or  a  sore  throat,  I'll  know  where  to  come  for 
help,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

By  this  time  my  mind  was  running  back  and 
forth  so  fast  through  the  circuit,  with  this  preacher 
who  had  no  wife  for  a  shield  and  buckler,  that  I 
forgot  the  cake.  We  were  standing  in  the  hall, 
both  of  us  looking  at  that  baby's  high  chair  reared 
back  against  the  wall. 

Then  he  said  something  about  the  parsonage, 
which,  if  he  hadn't  been  the  pastor  sent  to  us  by 
the  Conference,  would  have  made  me  suspect 
he'd  never  been  inside  one  before.  Experience 
damages  illusions  faster  than  most  people  can 
mend  them.  It  seemed  to  me  that  Brother  Wade 
had  wrapped  that  Little  house  about  him  like  a 
spiritual  garment,  not  knowing  yet  how  cold  it  is 
in  winter  or  how  hot  in  summer. 

"I  like  it — living  in  this  house,"  he  concluded. 


218  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"It  contains  the  Gospel  of  poverty  and  charity, 
the  Scriptures  of  men  and  women  who  have  denied 
themselves,  little  worn  places  on  the  rugs  where 
children  played.  I'm  sure  it  is  full  of  prayers — 
odd,  how  you  get  an  idea  like  that  from  just  things 
sometimes,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  is;  very  odd.  .  .  .  You'll  find  that 
the  plumbing's  bad,"  I  added  dryly  as  I  went 
down  the  steps. 

When  I  was  halfway  across  the  street  I  remem 
bered  something. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Brother  Wade,"  I  called,  turn 
ing  back  and  seeing  him  still  standing  in  the  door 
way.  "I  just  wanted  to  ask  you  one  thing,"  I 
panted.  "How  do  you  pray  the  Lord's  Prayer?" 

"How  do  I  pray  the  Lord's  Prayer?"  he  asked, 
looking  puzzled,  as  if  he  might  not  be  able  offhand 
to  remember  the  prayer  at  all. 

"Yes;  do  you  say  'Forgive  us  our  trespasses, 
as  we  forgive  those  who  trespass  against  us/  or 
do  you  say  'Forgive  us  our  debts?" 

"Oh,  yes;  of  course" — relieved.  "I  say  'tres 
passes/  Why?" 

"The  Shanklins  are  all  Episcopalians.  They 
have  no  church  here  and  they  won't  come  to  ours 
if  the  preacher  says  '  Forgive  us  our  debts.'  Those 
poor  people  were  without  the  Gospel  all  last  year 
because  Brother  Battle  said  'debts.'" 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  219 

"Ah,  I  see!  Well,  they  are  safe  this  year  as 
trespassers,  which  means  more  against  them  than 
being  debtors,"  he  said,  not  laughing,  but  as  if 
he  was  ready  to  accuse  the  whole  Shanklin  tribe 
of  their  deeper  sins. 

I  was  not  sure,  when  I  knelt  to  say  my  prayers 
that  night,  whether  I  should  thank  God  for  our 
new  pastor  or  ask  Him  to  have  mercy  on  the 
Methodists  in  Berton.  I  was  unsettled  in  my 
spirit,  which  is  worse  than  being  unsettled  in 
your  mind,  when  you've  been  sitting  and  singing 
your  soul  "away  to  everlasting  bliss"  for  nearly 
forty  years  in  a  familiar  place. 

But  I  had  not  got  so  far  as  this  in  my  devotion 
when  the  telephone  bell  rang. 

It  is  wrong  to  make  a  woman  angry  when  she's 
on  her  knees  before  the  throne  of  grace;  but  I 
was  too  angry  to  go  on,  knowing  Sally  at  the 
telephone  was  like  the  importunate  widow.  So 
I  rose  from  my  indignant  knees  and  flounced  into 
the  cold  hall. 

"Is  this  you,  Sister  Thompson?"  she  cheeped 
in  her  snowbird  voice. 

"It's  always  me,  Sally,  when  you  ring  this 
number,"  I  answered  irritably. 

"Have  you  been  over  to  the  parsonage  yet?" 

"Yes." 


220  A  Circuit  Riders  Widow 

"What  kind  of  preacher  did  we  get?" 

"Methodist,"  I  returned  maliciously. 

There  was  a  pause  as  if  I'd  shot  cold  water  on 
her  through  the  'phone. 

"Of  course  he's  a  Methodist!  I  just  wanted 
to  know  what  you  thought  of  him. 

She  began  again  primly,  as  if  she  didn't  con 
sider  herself  responsible  for  the  rudeness  of  a 
woman  who  pretended  to  be  a  Christian,  and 
she'd  hang  up  the  receiver  then  and  there.  But  I 
knew  she  wouldn't;  so  I  answered: 

"It's  not  what  I  think  of  him  or  what  anybody 
thinks  that's  going  to  count  this  year,  Sally;  but 
it's  what  he  thinks." 

"Oh,  then  he's  a  strong  character.  We  need 
a  strong  man  to  pull  this  church  up." 

"We've  got  him." 

"I  reckon  he  was  glad  to  see  the  high  chair." 

"I  left  him  doting  on  it" — dryly. 

"Sister  Warren's  going  to  send  her  last  winter's 
coat  over  for  Sister  Wade  as  soon  as  she  gets 


in." 


"Tell  her  she'd  better  wait  until  she  sees  her." 

"Why?"  The  tone  was  breathless  with  curi 
osity.  I  knew  she  awaited  the  answer,  to  fill  in 
the  lines  of  Sister  Wade's  figure. 

"Because  it  might  not  fit,"  I  answered  evasively. 

I  could  see  Sally  at  the  other  end  of  the  'phone, 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

her  hair  skinned  back,  her  eyes  rolled  up,  trying 
to  think  of  something  else  she  wanted  to  know. 

"Was  that  really  his  car?"  came  the  next  ques 
tion. 

"I  didn't  ask  him." 

"Sam  says  it  can't  be.  He  says  if  Brother 
Wade  could  afford  a  fine  automobile  like  that  the 
bishops  would  have  given  him  a  better  appoint 
ment." 

"You  tell  Sam  Parks  a  Methodist  steward 
ought  to  know  better  than  to  slander  his  bishop," 
I  answered  sharply. 

"Oh,  he  didn't  mean  it  that  way,"  she  sniffed. 
"Well,  good-night!  I  do  hope  Brother  Wade's 
the  right  man  for  this  church" — in  a  last  effort 
to  draw  my  fire. 

But  I  held  to  my  reserve.  I  was  in  no  mood  to 
betray  the  preacher  by  gossiping  about  my  visit. 
Besides,  I  never  talk  about  a  new  pastor.  It's 
like  predicting  the  weather  and  then  have  it  turn 
against  you  and  make  you  a  prophet  without 
honour  in  your  own  church. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Before  time  for 
services  the  rear  seats  in  our  church  were  filled 
with  Baptists  and  Presbyterians.  They  always 
come  in  force  to  hear  our  new  pastor  preach  his 
first  sermon,  and  they  always  occupy  the  frigid 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

zone  in  this  church,  as  if  it  agreed  with  them  better 
spiritually. 

The  Methodists  were  spread  out  comfortably 
in  the  middle  latitudes,  with  a  sprinkling  of  the 
sterner,  stronger  saints  in  the  amen  corners.  The 
front  pews  were  empty,  as  if  the  body  of  the  con 
gregation  shrank  from  the  uncertainty  of  a  new 
pastor.  All  the  most  promising  young  sinners  in 
town  were  still  standing  outside  on  the  pave 
ment.  Now  and  then  one  of  them  would  sneak 
up  the  steps,  look  in  and  draw  back.  They  were 
too  meek  in  their  transgressions  to  risk  those  front 
pews  with  a  new  preacher  in  the  pulpit;  for  if  he 
should  prove  to  have  a  furnace  soul  and  the  sparks 
of  his  Gospel  flew  out  they  would  have  no  pro 
tection  in  that  exposed  place. 

The  choir  had  assembled  almost  beyond  the 
front,  for  they  had  no  choice  in  this  matter  of 
places.  We  could  see  Sam  Parks  working  his 
head  this  way,  and  that,  trying  to  pull  his  Adam's 
apple  up  out  of  his  collar,  getting  ready  to  sing 
bass.  We  could  hear  Oscar  Fain  snuffing  and 
clearing  his  throat,  getting  ready  to  skin  the  tune 
with  his  tenor.  Evalina  Lipton  and  Lily  Triggs 
sat  a  certain  distance  apart,  as  if  neither  wished 
her  alto  or  her  soprano  to  be  too  closely  associated 
with  the  other.  They  coughed,  looked  straight 
ahead,  with  their  velvet  hats  sticking  up  like 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  223 

high  notes  put  in  sidewise.  Susie  King  sat  upon 
the  stool  and  bent  anxiously  over  the  organ,  study 
ing  the  opening  chords  of 

Come  ye  that  love  the  Lord 
And  let  your  joys  be  known. 

The  clock,  placed  significantly  on  the  wall 
opposite  the  pulpit,  marked  the  time — five  minutes 
after  eleven;  and  no  sign  of  the  preacher!  The 
people  began  to  stir.  Little  suppressed  sounds, 
words  barely  whispered  ran  softly  sibilant  through 
the  house;  watch  cases  snapped.  Then  we  realized 
suddenly  that  there  was  a  commotion  outside. 
Instantly  everybody's  head  seemed  to  be  put  on 
backward  and  every  face  was  turned  toward  the 
door  through  which  Felix  Wade  came,  followed 
by  all  the  young  men  and  boys  who  had  gathered 
before  the  church.  They  slipped  into  the  front 
pews  like  young  puppies  when  they  approach 
forbidden  places,  walling  their  eyes,  ears  down,  and 
tails  drawn  beseechingly  low. 

The  service  began  at  once  and  proceeded  as 
usual.  We  stood  and  sang.  We  read  the  re 
sponses.  We  knelt  and  prayed.  We  sat  up  and 
sang  again.  All  done  with  automatic  precision 
while  we  kept  our  eyes  on  the  preacher,  speculat 
ing  on  what  manner  of  man  we  had  drawn  for  this 
year's  spiritual  conflicts. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

It  was  not  until  he  opened  the  Bible  to  read  the 
morning  lesson  that  we  realized  there  had  been  no 
collection. 

"He's  forgotten  to  take  the  offering!"  somebody 
whispered  behind  me. 

The  stewards  exchanged  glances,  half  rose  from 
their  seats  as  if  they  meant  to  get  it  anyhow. 
With  all  those  Baptists  and  Presbyterians  in  the 
house,  it  was  criminal  negligence  to  omit  the  col 
lection!  I  thought  so  myself. 

But  it  was  too  late.  The  voice  of  a  young  man 
filled  the  house;  not  the  sonorous  pastoral  tones  to 
which  we  had  long  been  accustomed,  even  in  the 
youngest  preachers,  but  the  clear,  deep  tones  of 
just  a  man,  modulated  by  a  kind  of  elegance. 

/"And  I,  brethren,  when  I  came  to  you, 
came  not  with  excellency  of  speech  or  of  wisdom, 
declaring  unto  you  the  testimony  of  God.  For  I 
determined  not  to  know  anything  among  you,  save 
Jesus  Christ,  and  Him  crucified.  And  I  was  with 
you  in  weakness,  and  in  fear,  and  in  much  trem 
bling.  And  my  speech  and  my  preaching  was  not 
with  enticing  words  of  man's  wisdom,  but  in 
demonstration  of  the  Spirit  and  of  power:  that 
your  faith  should  not  stand  in  the  wisdom  of  men, 
but  in  the  power  of  God.'  .  .  .  Amen!" 

The  last  word  was  added  after  a  perceptible 
pause. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  Z25 

Then  he  went  back  and  read  the  second  verse 
again: 

"'For  I  determined  not  to  know  anything 
among  you,  save  Jesus  Christ,  and  Him  crucified.' 
.  .  .  Part  of  the  second  chapter  of  First 
Corinthians." 

He  stood  staring  down  at  the  open  book  before 
him.  He  waited  so  long  that  a  strange  fear  seized 
me  lest  he  should  stop  there,  walk  from  the  pulpit 
and  leave  the  house,  having  delivered  his  message 
in  this  brief  sentence. 

At  last  he  began  to  speak,  with  his  eyes  still  upon 
the  book,  vaguely,  like  a  man  who  dares  not  fully 
trust  himself.  I  have  known  a  convert  to  falter 
the  same  way  the  first  time  he  is  called  on  to  lead  in 
prayer.  But  if  ever  such  a  one  does  receive  the 
new  gift  of  his  tongue  he  surpasses  any  elder  saint 
in  the  power  of  prayer.  So  now  it  was  with  this 
young  man  before  us.  Presently  he  lifted  his  eyes  as 
if  they  were  the  wings  of  his  soul,  suddenly  set  free. 

I  have  heard  many  better  sermons — just  ser 
mons,  you  understand — but  never  one  that  dealt 
with  a  certain  Scripture  as  if  it  were  the  living 
thought  of  the  man  who  was  talking,  and  not  the 
words  of  an  apostle  spoken  two  thousand  years 
ago.  There  was  no  authority  in  his  manner;  no 
accusative  searching  of  the  people  to  brand  their 
secret  unfaithfulness  with  the  hot  iron  of  the  Gos- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

pel,  which  is  a  form  of  inquisition  peculiar  to 
preachers.  He  merely  promised  himself.  He  was 
determined  to  know  nothing  among  us  but  Jesus 
Christ.  He  took  this  vow  against  all  unright 
eousness  in  himself,  and  in  Berton,  as  if  he  were 
taking  a  pledge  against  strong  drink  instead  of 
preaching  a  sermon.  It  was  like  that,  his  manner 
— one  who  has  recently  made  a  narrow  escape  and 
now  looks  fearfully  down  from  a  high  but  danger 
ous  refuge.  We  were  to  be  his  home;  but  he 
would  occupy  only  the  table-lands  where  we  per 
formed  our  good  deeds,  which  is  a  very  small  terri 
tory  in  this  community. 

Before  he  finished,  the  carnal  mind — all  the 
human  narrowness  of  us — was  bottled  up  and 
blockaded  behind  our  better  natures.  And  I  must 
say  some  of  those  present  were  harder  hit  than  if 
he'd  come  out  in  the  open  and  fought  their  beset 
ting  sins  with  the  most  damaging  curses  of  Isaiah. 
Men  and  women  are  so  long  accustomed  to  having 
their  transgressions  flung  at  them  from  the  pulpit 
that  they  cease  to  worry  over  this;  but  to  be 
quarantined  into  just  their  virtues  was  a  new  and 
embarrassing  experience. 

I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  I'm  rather  farsighted 
in  church;  and  once  or  twice  I  couldn't  resist  cut 
ting  my  eye  round  just  to  see  how  the  sermon  was 
"taking." 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  227 

Some  of  the  people  sat  reared  back;  some  bent 
their  heads  as  we  do  in  a  pouring  rain.  Mrs. 
Warren  seemed  to  be  holding  herself  down  writh  her 
double  chin.  She  wouldn't  look  at  the  preacher; 
and  she  couldn't  look  at  anybody  else,  for  she  knew 
every  one  of  us  understood  better  than  the  preacher 
did  that  he  was  putting  up  a  guard-rail  with  this 
sermon  against  the  special  privilege  she  enjoyed, 
like  sanctification,  of  revealing  to  him  those  things 
in  his  people  which  had  least  to  do  with  the  re 
ligious  thoroughfare  of  Jesus  Christ  in  them. 
Mrs.  Lip  ton  was  visibly  aggrieved.  Her  nose 
stuck  out,  her  mouth  dropped,  and  her  chin  re 
ceded  as  if  he  had  already  accused  her  of  gossiping, 
when  she  hadn't  said  a  word — had  not  even  met 
him!  The  stewards  stared  straight  ahead,  as 
much  as  to  say:  "He's  making  his  bed.  Let  him 
lie  on  it  if  he  can!" 

I  could  not  see  the  Baptists  and  Presbyterians, 
but  I  knew  what  thoughts  were  running  about 
among  them.  They  were  doing  to  our  backs 
what  we  usually  did  to  our  own  backs.  For 
Christian  backbiting  is  one  of  the  acid  forms  of 
piety  in  all  churches.  A  preacher  is  swift  and  ex 
perienced  in  discovering  every  shortcoming  and 
man-besetting  sin  among  the  people  he  has  come  to 
serve.  If  he  gets  to  his  new  appointment  as  late 
as  twenty-four  hours  before  he  conducts  his  first 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

service,  he  knows  every  backslidden  man  and 
every  meddlesome  female  Pharisee  in  the  congrega 
tion;  because  somebody  tells  him  by  way  of  in 
suring  him  against  snares  and  pitfalls,  such  as  call 
ing  on  the  wrong  brother  to  lead  in  prayer  or  show 
ing  himself  too  friendly  to  the  lady  serpent  in  the 
choir.  He  begins  his  ministry  laden  with  every 
body's  transgressions. 

While  I  was  considering  Brother  Wade  bereaved 
of  all  human  help  in  these  matters — for  this  was 
exactly  what  his  message  meant — and  wondering 
what  on  earth  would  happen  if  somebody  didn't 
break  through  and  tell  him  a  few  things  for  his  own 
safety  about  the  peculiar  conditions  in  this  church 
— especially  the  choir — he  brought  his  sermon  to 
an  end  and  capped  my  anxieties  by  praying  the 
closing  prayer  himself.  This  is  a  privilege  Brother 
Warren  has  had  in  this  church  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century. 

I  went  down  on  my  knees  as  usual;  but,  by  the 
grace  of  God,  I  can  sometimes  trust  the  other  per 
son  to  pray  without  following  every  word  with  my 
private  approval;  so  now  I  peeped  through  the 
lattice  of  my  fingers  at  old  Tom  Warren,  sitting 
bolt  upright,  glaring  as  if  he'd  been  insulted  before 
the  very  throne  of  heaven.  I  doubt  that  any  one 
followed  the  prayer.  We  were  all  secretly  staring 
through  our  fingers  or  over  the  tops  of  hymn  books 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  229 

at  what  we  could  see  of  the  preacher.  We  were 
mystified  by  this  stranger  within  our  gates,  who 
looked  like  an  emigrant  from  the  world  of  wealth 
and  fashion,  who  possessed  the  magnetism  and 
grace  of  an  accomplished  public  speaker,  and  who 
made  pledges  of  himself  to  us  from  the  Gospel  ac 
cording  to  Saint  Paul. 

As  I  came  out  of  the  church  Sally  Parks  just 
looked  at  me  and  went  on.  Then  the  congregation 
streamed  forth,  all  talking,  but  not  about  the  ser 
mon  or  the  preacher.  They  went  their  different 
ways,  in  a  hurry  to  get  where  it  would  be  safe  to 
talk. 

At  last  came  Felix  Wade,  walking  swiftly  with  a 
long  stride,  his  coat  tails  cleaving  to  his  shapely 
legs  as  if  they  had  been  taught  to  do  it. 

"Good  morning,  Brother  Wade,"  I  said,  offering 
my  hand. 

He  took  it,  looking  at  me  doubtfully;  then, 
throwing  up  his  other  hand,  he  replied,  ruffling  his 
cowlick  as  if  I  was  somehow  connected  with  that  in 
his  mind.  I  thought  maybe  he  had  forgotten  me, 
seeing  so  many  strange  faces  and  shaking  hands 
with  so  many  people  as  he  did  after  the  service. 
But  I  was  wrong.  He  called  my  name  at  once. 

"  Oh,  good  morning,  Sister  Thompson.  I  wanted 
to  see  you  about  something.  What  was  it?" — 
still  rumpling  his  hair  and  covering  me  with  eyes 


230  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

that  lied  and  twinkled  admiringly,  just  to  compli 
ment  an  old  woman. 

"Maybe  you  were  thinking  you'd  go  home  with 
me  to  dinner.  I'm  expecting  you,"  I  suggested 
diffidently,  for  I  had  heard  Charlotte  Warren  say, 
as  she  came  out,  that  he  had  refused  all  invitations. 

"I  am  much  obliged;  but  I  have  guests  of  my 
own,  you  see,"  he  answered,  wagging  his  head  to 
ward  the  parsonage,  where  perhaps  a  dozen  young 
men  were  standing  on  the  steps  waiting  for  him — 
the  same  youths  who  had  followed  him  into  the 
church  at  the  beginning  of  the  service. 

"Not  for  dinner?"  I  gasped. 

"Yes"— smiling. 

"Heaven  preserve  the  man!"  I  cried.  "Don't 
you  know  there  are  only  nine  plates  and  six  knives 
and  forks  in  that  parsonage?" 

"That's  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  knew  I  needed 
your  assistance  most  awfully.  Will  you  lend  me  a 
few  things?  Lum  tells  me  we  are  short  in  spoons, 
too." 

"You  are  short  in  everything,"  I  said,  bustling 
at  the  thought  of  his  predicament.  "Send  your 
heathen  over  for  what  he  needs." 

"Thanks!  I  knew  I  could  depend  upon  you," 
he  replied  cheerfully. 

"Brother  Wade,  that  was  a  good  sermon,"  I 
said,  detaining  him  timidly. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  231 

"Not  exactly  a  sermon,"  he  answered,  looking  at 
me  quickly. 

"No;  not  exactly.  You  didn't  leave  yourself 
much  margin." 

"All  I  dare  take,"  he  answered  gravely. 

The  days  that  followed  were  filled  with  such  ex 
citement  as  we  have  never  had  hi  Berton,  not  even 
during  a  heated  political  campaign.  It  was  not 
that  kind,  but  suppressed,  eager,  increasing  like  a 
dam  of  secret  waters.  All  eyes  were  focussed  upon 
the  Methodist  parsonage,  and  upon  the  man  who 
occasionally  issued  forth  from  it  to  do  strangely 
incredible  things;  or — what  was  still  more  in 
credible — who  did  not  come  forth  when  he  was 
expected. 

The  stewards  met  as  usual  on  the  first  night 
after  prayer  meeting  to  fix  the  pastor's  salary  for 
the  coming  year.  In  all  our  experience  as  sup 
porters  of  the  ministry,  never  before  had  the  pastor 
been  absent  on  this  important  occasion. 

If  he  is  young  and  timid,  with  only  one  or  two 
children,  he  may  sit  back  and  say  nothing  while 
the  board  of  stewards  explains  w^hy  the  church 
may  not  be  able  to  pay  the  preacher  as  much  this 
year — certainly  no  more.  Or  if  he  has  three  or 
four  children  and  a  delicate  wife,  and  is  in  debt 
on  account  of  the  expense  of  moving  from  one 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

side  of  the  state  to  the  other,  he  may  stand  up 
to  them  like  a  hungry  prophet  complaining  at  a 
continued  diet  of  locusts  and  wild  honey.  He 
will  explain  why  he  cannot  possibly  live  on  what 
they  paid  the  last  preacher,  and  bargain  until  he 
gets  the  raise  in  salary  he  needs.  But  he  is  always 
there,  looking  like  the  lean  Word  in  the  face,  wait 
ing  to  find  out  whether  he  can  afford  to  live  or 
just  starve  through  the  year. 

Brother  Wade  bowed  himself  out  of  the  church 
that  night  and  left  the  stewards  high  and  dry, 
as  if  what  they  paid  the  preacher  was  a  matter 
to  be  settled  by  their  own  consciences — not 
his. 

The  result  was  they  did  not  settle  it  at  all.  We 
heard  that  they  agreed  to  let  the  church  pay 
"what  it  felt  able  to  pay,"  thereby  spreading  the 
responsibility  out  thinner  than  it  ought  to  have 
been  spread. 

The  next  thing  we  heard  was  that  the  telephone 
had  been  taken  out  of  the  parsonage. 

"Thomas  tried  to  get  Brother  Wade  for  an 
hour  last  night  before  he  found  out  what  was  the 
matter,"  said  Mrs.  Warren  at  the  Woman's  Mis 
sionary  Society  meeting. 

"Sam  did,  too,"  put  in  Sally  Parks.  "He 
wanted  to  tell  him  what  the  stewards  had  decided 
to  do  about  the  salary." 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  233 

"You  mean  what  they  decided  not  to  do,"  I 
coolly  amended. 

"I  think  the  pastor  owes  it  to  his  people  to 
keep  within  speaking  relation  to  them  all  the 
time,  when  it  costs  but  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  month 
to  do  it!"  Mrs.  Lip  ton  added  after  a  pause,  by 
way  of  avoiding  the  action  of  the  stewards,  which 
is  always  a  tender  subject. 

"Maybe  he  doesn't  want  to  be  within  speaking 
distance  all  the  time,"  I  said.  "It's  like  being 
held  by  a  wire  night  and  day.  I've  been  called 
from  my  knees  in  prayer  to  answer  the  telephone 
myself" — giving  Sally  Parks  wrhat  was  coming 
to  her. 

"Still,  since  he's  a  single  man,  and  we  can't 
be  running  in  and  out  the  way  we've  always  done 
at  the  parsonage,  I  think  he  ought  to  have  kept 
that  telephone,"  Mrs.  Warren  insisted  primly. 

"Well,  there's  one  consolation:  Lily  Triggs  won't 
take  up  so  much  of  his  time  discussing  the  church 
music  over  it!"  Mrs.  Lip  ton  sniffed. 

Then  we  fell  to  work  on  the  heathens  in  the 
uttermost  parts  of  the  earth ;  for,  being  respectable 
God-fearing  women,  we  do  not  discuss  the  director 
of  our  choir  except  where  two  or  three  are  gathered 
together  confidentially  for  that  purpose — certainly 
not  if  Charlotte  is  present.  But  I  had  a  picture 
in  my  mind  of  Lily  Triggs  sitting  in  her  parlour, 


234  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

with  her  hair  skewed  up  on  top  of  her  head,  her 
pinched-up  flower-pink  face  turned  sidewise,  with 
the  receiver  to  her  ear  and  her  red  lips  to  the 
transmitter,  shaking  her  sinfully  small  foot,  wait 
ing  and  waiting  to  say,  "Is  this  you,  Brother 
Wade?"  in  her  sweetest  singing  voice.  "This  is 
Lily  Triggs  speaking.  I  thought  you  might  want 
to  give  some  directions  about  the  hymns  for  next 

Sunday "  And  so  forth,  and  so  on,  for  an 

hour,  if  she  could  have  kept  him  that  long. 

The  only  private  information  the  town  had  of 
him  was  that  the  heathen  did  his  laundry,  and 
that  Brother  Wade  spent  more  for  gasoline  and 
spark  plugs  and  inner  tubes  that  first  week  than 
he  did  for  food,  lights,  and  postage.  He  did  not 
mail  a  single  letter,  and  not  a  single  letter  had  come 
for  him  at  the  post-office.  He  had  not  even  called 
for  his  mail.  This  was  very  strange.  Everybody 
said  so. 

Meantime  he  acted  like  a  man  taking  a  much- 
needed  holiday.  Apparently  he  was  serenely  un 
conscious  of  the  curiosity  he  excited.  He  knew 
nothing  about  the  awful  condition  the  church  was 
in.  He  had  no  depressing  information  about  the 
sins  in  us  which  he  must  overcome.  He  was  the 
freest  man  in  his  walk  and  conversation  we  ever 
had  in  Berton,  except  Lem  Brock,  who  died  in 
his  bed  here  a  few  years  ago  after  reigning  as  the 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  235 

bad  man  of  the  community,  and  commanding 
more  respect  for  his  dangerousness  than  anybody 
else  ever  got  for  behaving  himself. 

But  before  the  end  of  the  first  month  the  pastor 
had  been  within  intimate  soul-speaking  distance 
with  every  member  of  his  church  many  times. 
It  was  the  quickest  work  in  the  line  of  pastoral 
visiting  we  had  ever  known.  Each  day  about 
three  o'clock  he'd  flirt  into  his  car.  The  bulldog 
would  scramble  in  after  him,  and  he  was  off. 
Sometimes,  they  say,  he  made  as  many  as  ten 
calls  during  the  afternoon.  He  fairly  took  the 
breath  out  of  Berton,  sailing  up  one  street  and 
down  the  other,  with  that  dog  sitting  beside  him 
like  the  graven  image  of  a  doubtful  association. 

The  moment  he  started,  all  the  Methodist 
'phones  in  town  began  to  ring  in  swift  succession. 
The  women  informed  one  another,  and  each  one 
flew  from  the  'phone  to  pick  up  the  children's 
playthings  and  maybe  dust  the  family  Bible. 
Then,  before  she  could  get  her  apron  off  and  her 
hair  smoothed,  he'd  be  at  the  door.  Or,  worse 
still,  he'd  fly  by  the  house  and  catch  some  woman, 
who  didn't  have  any  'phone,  in  the  backyard  dye 
ing  her  last  winter's  suit,  leaving  those  he  skipped 
on  the  way  to  go  through  the  same  preparations 
for  him  the  next  day.  Then,  maybe  when  they'd 
given  him  up  altogether  and  settled  down  reck- 


236  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

lessly  with  the  sewing  machine  in  the  parlour,  he'd 
pop  in. 

"I  didn't  mind  his  catching  me  with  my  collar 
off,  and  little  Jimmy  in  nothing  but  his  shirt 
before  I  could  get  his  pants  on,  so  much  as  I  did 
that  awful  dog  he  keeps  in  the  car,"  Sally  Parks 
complained.  "A  preacher  should  avoid  the  very 
appearance  of  evil,  and  that's  the  evilest-looking 
beast  I  ever  saw  in  decent  company." 

The  same  afternoon,  when  I  heard  Brother 
Wade's  car  stop  in  front  of  the  parsonage,  I  went 
out  on  the  porch  and  beckoned  to  him.  I  can't 
tell  how  many  times  I've  done  that,  called  the 
preacher  across  the  street  between  my  house  and 
his  to  tell  him  something  he  ought  to  know,  to 
warn  him  against  some  mistake,  or  to  spur  him 
on  to  something.  I've  saved  many  a  one  from 
his  own  folly  or  somebody  else's  folly  just  in  the 
nick  of  time. 

He  came,  followed  by  the  dog.  I  looked  at 
him  and  then  at  this  scandalous  beast. 

"Brother  Wade,"  I  said,  coming  straight  to 
the  point,  "that's  a  terrible-looking  dog." 

"It's  the  way  he's  made,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"He  looks  bad — dangerous!"  I  insisted. 

"  He's  as  gentle  as  a  lamb."  He  stooped  to  stroke 
the  head  of  the  animal. 

"He  was  bred  to  fight." 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  237 

"He  never  fights." 

"Where's  his  other  ear,  then?"  I  demanded 
with  just  suspicion. 

"Oh,  that  happened  before — well,  before  we 
quit  fighting,"  he  replied  with  some  embarrass 
ment. 

"Appearances  are  very  strong  against  that  dog, 
Brother  Wade!" 

"You  might  say  the  same  about  members  of 
the  church,  Sister  Thompson.  I've  seen  a  man 
sitting  in  the  amen  corner  who  bore  all  the  marks 
of  a  doubtful  and  dangerous  character  upon  his 
face,"  he  returned  significantly. 

"When  you  do,  don't  trust  him  with  the  col 
lections  or  with  your  confidence.  Sitting  high 
up  in  the  church  doesn't  give  a  man  a  certificate  of 
good  character,  and  living  in  a  parsonage  doesn't 
change  the  nature  of  a  bulldog,"  I  answered,  know 
ing  exactly  who  I  was  talking  about  and  not 
ashamed  to  do  it.  "Can't  you  exchange  that 
animal  for  a  kinder-looking  dog?"  I  insisted 
after  a  pause. 

"If  I  did  he  might  go  back  to  his  old  habits— 
and  lose  the  other  ear!"  he  laughed. 

"Brother  WTade,  I'm  compelled  to  tell  it  to 
you  plain,  then "  I  began  and  hesitated. 

"Well?"— coolly. 

"I  don't  judge  a  man  by  the  dog  he  keeps,  but 


238  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

a  lot  of  people  in  this  town  will.  They  can't  get 
used  to  the  preacher  driving  up  to  their  door  to 
make  a  pastoral  call  with  a  brass-bound  bulldog 
sitting  beside  him.  It — it  looks  wrong!" 

"Oh,  if  that's  all,  I'll  leave  him  at  home.  Never 
occurred  to  me — this  objection.  Association  of 
ideas,  I  suppose,"  he  laughed. 

"Yes" — feeling  the  bigot  rising  in  me;  "cards 
are  associated  with  gambling,  so  we  mustn't  play 
cards.  Dancing  is  associated  with  sin,  so  we 
mustn't  dance.  Some  music  is  associated  with 
wicked  indulgence,  so  we  mustn't  sing  it.  And 
some  dogs,  Brother  Wade,  are  associated  with  the 
cruelest  sports,  so " 

"Yes;  I  see.  Bill,"  he  said  sternly,  "you  remain 
at  home  with  Lum  after  this." 

And  he  did.  From  that  day  he  never  went 
pastoral  visiting  with  his  master. 

We  had  gone  in  by  this  time  and  were  sitting 
before  the  fire.  Brother  Wade  continued  to  re 
gard  me  with  a  certain  gentle  curiosity. 

"I'm  just  thinking.  Ah,  would  you  mind  telling 
me:  Is  it  so — that  you  never  played  cards?" 

"Never!" 

"Nor  danced — not  even  when  you  were  young?" 

"No,"  I  answered  with  a  sigh. 

"It's  awful  and  it's  beautiful  to  live  like 
that "  he  said,  more  to  himself  than  to  me. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  239 

"I  don't  deserve  credit.  I  wanted  to  do  both 
many  a  time." 

"That's  what  makes  it  awful  and  beautiful — 
that  you  didn't." 

"I  doubt  if  those  are  the  worst  sins,"  I  went  on — 
"those  natural  desires  for  amusement  and  joy  we 
have  when  we  are  young.  I've  had  harder  trials 
since  I  became  a  Christian.  The  spiritual  force  in 
us  is  like  a  gun  that  kicks  sometimes " 

"Yes?"  he  asked,  looking  up  as  if  he  recognized 
something  familiar. 

"You'd  hardly  believe  it,"  I  went  on  saying, 
"but  women  are  terribly  bruised  by  their  own 
souls.  Our  fault  is  that  we  want  to  know  some 
thing  all  the  time.  We  sit  in  our  houses  and  won 
der  and  wonder  what's  going  on,  because  we  never 
can  find  out,  no  matter  how  much  we  search 
and  ask.  It's  wrong;  it  leads  to  all  manner  of 
evils  you'd  never  suspect — in  us  good  women,  I 


mean." 


"What  does?" 

"Curiosity.  We  can  conquer  everything  but 
that.  I've  always  suspected  that  Satan  gossiped 
with  Eve  enough  to  make  her  crave  to  know  more 
than  she  could  find  out  before  he  offered  her  the 
fruit  of  knowledge.  She  was  the  first  disciple  of 
higher  education.  And " 

He  interrupted  me  with  a  laugh  so  full  of  merri- 


240  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

ment  that  I  feared  he  might  think  I  was  being 
flippant  about  Genesis;  so  I  went  on  quickly: 

"But  we  didn't  get  it — knowledge;  only  an  in 
satiable  serpent  curiosity.  The  hardest- won  vic 
tories  I've  ever  had  as  a  Christian  woman  have  been 
to  keep  the  forked  tongue  out  of  my  eyes  and  the 
hiss  off  my  lips  because  I've  found  out  something 
about  somebody  that  I  should  not  have  known." 

Afterward  I  wondered  whether  all  the  other 
women  in  the  church  were  so  ready  to  tell  this  man 
things  about  their  own  failings,  since  he  would  not 
permit  the  failings  of  others  to  be  mentioned.  It 
imparted  an  element  of  confidence  and  safety  in  the 
pastoral  relation  to  know  that  Sally  Parks  would 
never  be  allowed  to  tell  him  that  she  considered 
me  dictatorial  in  the  missionary  society  and  med 
dlesome  in  the  church. 

On  Monday  after  the  third  Sunday  Felix  Wade 
disappeared  from  Berton.  He  was  absent  until 
the  following  Saturday.  No  one  knew  where  he 
had  gone  or  for  what  purpose.  That  question 
stared  at  him  from  the  face  of  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  Berton;  but  he  offered  no  explana 
tion. 

Now,  a  preacher  may  be  a  "free  man  in  Christ," 
as  the  Scriptures  promise,  but  God  Himself  cannot 
make  him  free  in  the  minds  of  his  own  people. 
They  feel  that  he  belongs  literally  to  his  church. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  241 

And  naturally  the  members  keep  an  eye  upon  him. 
When  our  pastor,  before  this  time,  left  us  even  for  a 
day  we  knew  where  he  had  gone — usually  to  a 
district  meeting — and  when  he  would  return.  We 
knew  how  much  money  he  had  in  the  bank;  and  if 
he  had  none  we  knew  that,  too.  We  knew  where  he 
spent  his  vacation,  if  he  got  one,  and  how  much  the 
suit  of  clothes  he  wore  cost.  So,  when  Brother 
Wade  went  off  twice  in  the  course  of  his  first 
month,  without  telling  anybody  where  he  was 
going,  we  didn't  know  what  to  think  or  even  what 
to  suspect. 

He  always  preached  a  good  sermon  the  following 
Sunday,  never  forgot  the  collection  again,  and  kept 
the  open  countenance  of  a  guiltless  man.  Still,  we 
wanted  to  know  where  he  went.  It  was  a  breach 
of  confidence  not  to  know. 

Whatever  others  may  have  suspected  I  was  cer 
tain  that  he  had  never  conducted  a  service  or 
preached  a  sermon  until  he  came  to  us.  He  had 
forgotten  the  collection  that  first  Sunday,  which 
is  the  last  thing  an  experienced  pastor  would  forget. 
And,  though  his  discourse  was  spiritual  to  the  point 
of  asceticism,  his  choice  of  words  never  was  made 
from  a  theological  lexicon.  His  delivery  was  too 
politely,  delicately  restrained  to  suggest  the  aban 
don  of  a  preacher  flinging  himself  against  Satan 
with  the  flaming  sword  of  righteousness. 


A  Circuit  Rider  s  Widow 

I  have  not  listened  to  preachers  for  forty  years 
without  knowing  a  thing  or  two.  It  was  what  I 
didn't  know  that  troubled  me.  And  nobody  knew 
the  man  himself — only  his  ministry,  which  was  still 
too  short  to  afford  side  lights  upon  his  character. 
I  had  my  suspicions  that  every  member  of  the 
church  was  confiding  in  him.  Also,  they  were 
awaiting  a  few  personal  confidences  from  him  in  re 
turn — which  he  blandly  avoided  giving. 

This  was  queer,  because  preachers  are  usually 
very  confidential.  They  tell  everything,  from  the 
sins  they  used  to  have  to  the  pains  and  aches  and 
tribulations  they  have  now,  with  merely  the  fervid 
hope  of  reward  in  the  future. 

Finally,  while  Brother  Wade  was  off  on  his  third 
disappearance,  I  thought  of  something  so  natural 
and  proper  that  I  wondered  it  hadn't  occurred  to 
me  sooner.  I  wrote  a  letter  to  our  presiding  elder. 
I  told  him  what  a  fine  preacher  Brother  Wade  was; 
how  well  he  was  taking  hold  of  the  young  people  in 
the  community;  how  conscientious  he  was  about 
his  pastoral  visiting — everything  I  could  think  of 
by  way  of  recommending  him.  Then  I  added  that 
we  were  so  pleased  with  him  we  wanted  to  know 
how  we  happened  to  get  him.  How  long  had  he 
been  in  the  ministry?  From  what  Conference  had 
he  been  transferred?  The  reply  came  at  once.  It 
was  brief. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  243 

DEAR  SISTER  THOMPSON: 

Your  letter  is  one  of  a  dozen  similar  letters  that 
have  come  to  me  from  the  members  of  Brother 
Wade's  congregation.  I  am  glad  he  is  so  well  re 
ceived.  We  hope  he  will  do  a  great  work  in  Berton 
and  heal  those  dissensions  in  the  church  that  have 
been  a  great  affliction  to  the  bishops  and  elders. 

I  am  unable  to  answer  your  questions  or  those 
of  the  same  general  nature  concerning  him  in  the 
other  letters.  His  case  is  remarkable  in  the  fact 
that  he  came  to  us  licensed  to  preach  and  highly 
recommended  by  the  Bishop.  This  was  sufficient 
assurance  to  the  brethren  who  received  him  into 
our  Conference.  Accept  him  as  from  the  Lord, 
and  do  what  you  can  to  uphold  and  strengthen  his 
hands  in  the  ministry. 

Faithfully  yours, 

P.  E.  PATTLJXG. 

I  went  back  and  read  this  sentence:  "We  hope 
he  will  do  a  great  work  in  Berton  and  heal  those 
dissensions  in  the  church  that  have  been  a  great 
affliction  to  the  bishops  and  elders." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THERE  is  no  possible  way  to  divorce  religion 
from  secular  life,  and  no  way  to  reconcile 
the  one  with  the  other.  Man  is  a  mixed 
metaphor,  an  incorrect  composition  from  the  be 
ginning.  He  is  very  busy  squandering  the  patri 
mony  of  his  spirit  in  the  commerce  of  this  present 
world.  But  when  he  grows  sick  of  himself  and  all 
his  works  he  turns  to  God.  Then  when  he  dis 
covers  the  terrific  demands  the  Almighty  makes  he 
draws  back  and  swears  he  is  the  promoter  of  his 
own  salvation.  Of  all  the  perversities  in  this 
world  there  are  none  like  those  which  he  practises 
trying  to  avoid  the  issue  of  his  own  soul.  He  will 
keep  books  in  this  business,  credit  himself  with 
seven  chosen  virtues,  two  or  three  vices,  strike  off 
a  margin  for  incidental  sins — and  do  it  all  so 
privately  that  only  the  angels  can  distinguish  him 
from  a  saint.  He  is  just  good  enough  to  be  en 
durable  and  just  bad  enough  to  be  natural.  But 
let  a  man  determine  to  live  literally  according  to 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  actually  practise  pov 
erty,  humility,  meekness,  mercy,  purity,  and  peace 
making,  and  he  becomes  a  menace  to  the  com 

244 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  245 

munity.  He  commits  crimes  against  the  stand 
ards  of  the  best  people. 

So  long  as  we  are  in  the  flesh  we  may  only  take 
the  Beatitudes  with  moderation,  or  take  the  con 
sequences,  which  in  the  experience  of  our  church 
proved  to  be  very  bad.  The  reproach  was  not 
upon  these  Scriptures,  but  upon  us  here  in  Berton. 
But  I  will  say  this — if  Felix  Wade  had  remained 
pastor  of  this  church  long  enough  to  enforce  his 
sublimely  impractical  form  of  piety,  the  last  one  of 
us  would  have  been  naked,  hungry,  homeless  to  the 
point  of  starvation.  I  reckon  he  might  have  died 
a  supernatural  death,  firm  in  the  faith,  but  we 
should  have  been  dead  just  the  same,  which  was 
too  much  to  ask  of  a  thriving  town  and  a  struggling 
church. 

My  purpose  is  to  set  down  here  exactly  what 
happened  and  to  leave  those  who  think  they  know 
that  it  could  not  have  happened  to  prove  what  they 
think  they  know. 

Berton  is  so  far  removed  from  the  nearest  large 
city  where  daily  papers  are  published,  that  when 
the  morning  edition  reaches  us  it  is  an  afternoon 
paper,  and  when  the  afternoon  edition  reaches  us  it 
is  the  next  morning's  paper. 

Now  in  the  summer  of  1914,  before  Felix  Wade 
came  to  us  in  the  autumn,  the  headlines  of  these 


246  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

journals  informed  us  that  a  great  war  was  raging 
in  Europe.  This  was  all  we  knew  about  it.  We 
were  removed  from  the  immediate  sense  of  what 
was  going  on  by  the  fifty  years  of  memories  and 
hardships  which  had  elapsed  since  our  own  Civil 
War.  To  erase  this  date  from  the  minds  of  South 
ern  people  would  be  like  trying  to  remove  the 
symbol  A.  D.  from  the  history  of  Christianity. 
All  our  thoughts  are  divided  simply  and  irrevo 
cably  between  "before  the  war"  and  "after  the 
war."  So  the  news  we  had  of  battles  in  Europe 
only  reminded  the  old  men  to  tell  again  of  the 
battle  of  Gettysburg.  And  the  stories  of  sacked 
towns  and  cities  in  Belgium  merely  stirred  the 
old  women  to  tell  of  Sherman's  march  through 
Georgia,  and  how  they  boiled  the  dirt  in  their 
smokehouses  to  get  salt  with  which  to  season 
food.  No  one  supposed  that  a  war  waged  on 
the  other  side  of  the  world  could  affect  us  one 
way  or  the  other. 

It  was  a  fact  that  the  Stock  Exchange  in  New 
York  had  closed.  This  was  no  affair  of  ours. 
Decent  people  in  Berton  did  not  approve  of  the 
goings  on  in  this  Stock  Exchange,  and  never  had, 
It  was  associated  in  our  minds  with  gambling  in 
cotton  futures,  a  form  of  iniquity  not  practised 
here.  Besides,  New  York  was  nearly  as  far  from 
us  as  the  war  itself.  The  sun  was  still  shining 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  247 

upon  fields  of  corn,  and  the  hills  about  Berton 
were  covered  with  cotton.  Trade  languished,  but 
as  trade  always  takes  a  midsummer  siesta  in 
this  town  no  one  was  concerned  about  that.  This 
stagnation  was  only  temporary.  The  markets 
would  recover  when  the  crops  began  to  move. 
The  merchants  said  so,  the  farmers  believed  it, 
the  professional  men  were  only  waiting  for  this 
annual  migration  of  crops  before  they  collected 
accounts.  Even  the  stewards  in  our  church 
promised  to  pay  something  on  the  preacher's 
salary — "when  the  crops  began  to  move." 

Then  suddenly  something  happened  and  every 
thing  stopped.  The  crops  were  harvested,  but 
they  did  not  move.  In  November  there  were 
fifty  thousand  bales  of  cotton  in  Berton.  The 
warehouses  were  filled,  the  freight  depot  was 
covered  with  it,  the  streets  were  lined  with  ragged 
bales  of  it,  standing  and  leaning  like  poor  folk 
ready  to  take  the  train.  Then  cotton  went  down 
to  three  cents  a  pound,  and  Berton  was  one  vast 
Dives  barn,  filled  with  a  great  harvest  while  her 
people  suffered  for  the  very  necessities  of  life. 
We  could  neither  buy  what  we  needed  nor  sell 
what  we  had. 

The  war  in  Europe  had  crossed  the  seas,  trav 
elled  a  thousand  miles  overland  and  reached  Ber 
ton.  Every  man  in  the  country,  however  poor, 


248  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

paid  an  enormous  war  tax  during  the  winter  of 
1914.  And  since  no  munitions  factories  had  been 
established  in  this  too  temperamental  part  of  the 
country,  the  South  was  not  in  a  position,  as  the 
North  and  West  were,  to  recoup  itself  financially 
for  these  losses  by  furnishing  ammunition  to  the 
Allies  upon  strictly  neutral  terms. 

One  disaster  followed  another.  First  the  Citi 
zens'  Bank  of  Berton  closed  automatically,  as 
banks  do  in  a  panic,  and  John  Henry  Lipton, 
who  was  cashier,  lost  his  job.  Then  the  stocks 
in  which  Tom  Warren  had  invested  most  of  his 
money  dropped  way  below  par  and  ceased  to 
pay  dividends.  Charlotte  had  to  dismiss  her 
servant  and  do  her  own  work,  which  she  did  with 
such  an  air  of  outraged  dignity  that  she  was  more 
formidable  than  ever.  Molly  Brown  was  obliged 
to  sell  her  fifty-dollar  organ  for  twelve  dollars  to 
pay  her  taxes. 

"It's  just  as  well,"  she  said  to  me  with  a  sigh. 
"I  never  could  play  a  tune  on  it,  but  I  took  a 
worldly  pride  in  having  an  organ  in  my  parlour. 
Now  there  ain't  a  single  thing  left  in  my  house 
that  I  don't  actually  need!" 

The  Peterses  sold  their  horse  and  buggy  for  a 
little  ready  money  to  go  on  until  Roger  could  sell 
his  cotton.  Sally  Parks  admitted  that  her  family 
was  living  on  the  hard  stock  in  Sam's  grocery 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  249 

store,  which  she  said  was  very  bad  on  account 
of  the  weevils  in  the  lady  peas  and  the  oat 
meal. 

Now  when  our  sons  and  daughters  die,  we  can 
say  with  Job:  "The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath 
taken  away;  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord!" 
But  when  it  comes  to  the  loss  of  wealth  and  com 
fort,  we  cannot  lay  that  to  Him,  for  the  Lord  never 
confers  treasures  upon  us  in  this  world  and  He 
never  takes  them  away.  We  get  them  by  hook 
or  crook  and  our  fellowmen  do  the  taking  away. 

The  panic  struck  Berton  shortly  after  Brother 
Wade  came  to  us.  And  we  were  so  concerned 
about  our  own  affairs  that  we  ceased  to  speculate 
about  him  as  we  had  done  at  first.  I  reckon  we 
lost  consciousness  spiritually  for  a  time.  When 
we  recovered  from  the  shock  we  found  him 
strangely  cheerful,  unaffected  by  the  misfortunes 
of  the  community. 

The  same  week  the  bank  went  into  the  hands 
of  a  receiver  and  Lipton  lost  his  position,  Tom 
Warren  lost  three  thousand  dollars  in  the  failure 
of  the  Coal  and  Ice  Company  of  Berton.  Natu 
rally  the  congregation  in  our  church  showed  the 
effects  of  these  disasters  the  following  Sunday. 
Many  men  and  some  women  wore  that  anxious 
look  which  the  fear  of  spiritual  damnation  never 
inspires.  We  were  all  very  low  in  our  minds. 


250  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

And  it  made  us  feel  queer  when  Brother  Wade 
opened  the  service  with: 

Safely  through  another  week, 
God  has  brought  us  on  our  way; 

Let  us  now  a  blessing  seek, 
Waiting  in  His  courts  to-day. 

I  reckon  we  were  still  safe  in  the  midst  of  these 
earthly  misfortunes.  But  when  you  have  lost 
your  job,  and  maybe  your  deposit  in  the  bank 
and  half  your  property,  it's  not  so  easy  to  feel 
safe,  much  less  to  sing  about  it. 

We  did  have  a  woman  in  this  town  once  with 
this  unnatural  spiritual  exaltation.  She  was  filled 
with  the  Spirit.  She  said  she  could  neither  sin 
nor  suffer,  and  she  could  rejoice  in  the  face  of  any 
sorrow.  Then  her  baby  died.  When  we  went 
to  the  funeral,  expecting  to  offer  sympathy  to 
a  heart-broken  mother,  she  met  us  at  the  door 
with  a  smile  and  invited  us  into  the  parlour  where 
the  casket  was.  She  showed  how  great  her  faith 
was,  but  it  everlastingly  ruined  her  in  this  town. 
Bearing  her  affliction  that  way  seemed  inhuman. 

Brother  Wade  took  as  his  text  that  day: 
"Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit:  for  theirs  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven."  He  said  being  poor  in 
spirit  meant  literally  preferring  poverty,  that 
poverty  was  the  natural  condition  of  Christians 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  251 

in  this  world,  that  we  must  not  want,  but  must 
want  only  to  give  whatever  we  had.  This,  he 
said,  was  the  price  of  citizenship  in  heaven. 

Neither  the  Warrens  nor  the  Liptons  were  in 
heaven,  and  they  showed  it  by  the  deaf-and-dumb 
faces  they  turned  toward  the  pulpit  that  day. 
As  we  came  out  of  the  church  Charlotte  said  to 
Sam  Parks: 

"There's  such  a  thing  as  being  wonderfully 
sustained  by  the  grace  of  God  when  it's  somebody 
else  who's  lost  everything  he's  got  in  the  world! 
When  Brother  Wade  finds  his  own  salary  cut  in 
half,  and  that  he  can  get  only  10  per  cent,  of  his 
church  collections,  he  will  sing  another  tune!" 

I  thought  as  much  myself.  If  he'd  only  said 
something  sympathetic  about  the  hardness  of 
the  times,  we  should  have  felt  he  was  nearer  kin 
to  us.  But  never  once  during  that  dreadful 
winter  did  he  refer  to  the  distress  in  the  town 
nor  to  any  worldly  condition.  The  moment  we 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  church  we  were  the 
Lord's  ravens,  His  lilies  of  the  field  who  should 
take  no  thought  about  how  we  should  be  fed  nor 
wherewith  we  should  be  clothed.  But  when  you 
are  still  in  the  body,  which  is  very  sensitive  to 
cold  and  hunger,  it  is  difficult  to  trust  just  to  the 
wing  feathers  of  faith  in  immortal  life. 

He  preached  steadily  on  the  Beatitudes  during 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

eight  weeks  of  the  worst  financial  depression  we 
ever  had  in  Berton.  I  am  not  complaining,  you 
understand,  but  I  have  noticed  that  we  Christians 
appreciate  these  Scriptures  more  when  they  do 
not  apply  so  dangerously  close  to  the  fix  we  are  in. 
Besides  a  pastor  has  the  advantage  when  it  comes 
to  living  up  to  the  Beatitudes.  What  is  the 
average  man's  religion  is  not  only  a  pastor's  re 
ligion  but  his  business  by  which  he  earns  a  living. 
We  were  accustomed  to  sermons  on  these  greatest 
of  all  sermons,  but  we  accepted  them  before  this 
time  with  reservations  necessary  for  carrying  on 
the  carnal  affairs  of  our  little  world.  No  other 
preacher  ever  took  advantage  of  the  situation  to 
fit  them  to  us  literally.  But  Felix  Wade  would 
get  into  the  pulpit  every  Sunday  morning  with 
that  cowlick  reached  up  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
his  face  flushed  with  the  blood  of  a  man,  and  his 
eyes  cooled  as  if  the  spirit  in  him  looked  down 
upon  us  with  a  merciless  determination  to  squeeze 
us  out  of  our  bodies. 

"Brethren,"  he  said  one  Sunday,  "the  poor  in 
heart  do  see  God.  This  is  not  a  figure  of  speech, 
but  a  law  of  the  spiritual  visions,  exact  as  that 
governing  refracted  angles  of  light  in  this  world. 
The  merciful  do  obtain  mercy.  If  there  is  one 
among  you  without  mercy  who  has  received  love 
or  charity  or  forgiveness,  that  man  is  a  thief." 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  253 

If  he  had  swung  his  arm  in  a  fine  gesture,  raised 
his  voice  and  shouted,  THAT  MAN'S  A  THIEF!  it 
wouldn't  have  been  so  bad.  Some  of  the  force 
of  the  thing  would  have  passed  off  in  the  rhetorical 
explosion.  But  he  never  raised  his  voice,  and  he 
was  too  intimate  with  his  "Thou  art  the  man" 
forefinger,  which  he  occasionally  wagged  at  us 
in'  a  manner  not  eloquent,  but  definite. 

We  were  getting  the  Gospel,  pure  and  undefiled, 
but  I  say  it  made  me  nervous,  as  we  had  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  one  too  young  in  spiritual  life,  not  yet 
accustomed  to  making  concessions  to  our  dust  and 
desires  who  was  wielding  a  terrible  sword  of  the 
spirit.  I  had  forebodings,  like  the  earlier  Chris 
tians  when  they  did  not  know  for  certain  what  fate 
awaited  them,  whether  they  were  to  be  cast  to  the 
lions  or  burned  at  the  stake.  My  impression  was 
that  we  were  about  to  be  tried  out  according  to  our 
profession  of  faith,  which  is  a  dangerous  experi 
ment  to  make  with  men  and  women  who  must  con 
tinue  to  live  in  a  world  governed  by  material 
standards. 

I  have  never  known  any  one  who  was  really  in 
timate  with  a  Methodist  preacher,  though  I've 
known  many  who  thought  they  were.  His  mi 
gratory  existence  does  not  permit  him  to  form  last 
ing  attachments.  But  I  have  noticed  this,  that 
every  one  of  them  chooses  a  favourite  roosting 


254  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

place  on  his  circuit,  some  home  where  he  can  preen 
himself  and  rest  from  being  just  the  physician  of 
souls.  My  house  has  always  been  such  a  refuge, 
either  because  I  am  sure  to  be  of  the  pastor's  fac 
tion  in  the  church  or  because  I  live  so  near  the 
parsonage. 

Brother  Wade  had  the  habit  of  dropping  in  on  his 
way  home  at  the  end  of  a  round  of  pastoral  visits, 
or  maybe  he'd  see  me  in  the  garden.  It  didn't 
matter,  he  came  always  informally.  I  would  not 
call  him  a  chicken-eating  preacher,  but  he  had  a 
man's  craving  for  food  prepared  by  a  woman.  He 
was  fond  of  a  certain  pudding  I  made.  He'd  fol 
low  his  nose  in  sometimes  when  he  smelled  a  par 
ticularly  savoury  odour  in  passing.  Nothing 
would  do  but  I  must  teach  Lum  to  prepare  some 
dish  the  way  I  served  it.  This  was  how  that 
heathen  got  into  my  kitchen,  a  circumstance  which 
led  to  startling  consequences  later  on,  as  this 
record  will  show. 

No  man  could  be  farther  removed  from  his  Gos 
pel  austerity  than  our  pastor  was  on  these  oc 
casions.  He  would  not  discuss  church  affairs  or 
current  events  in  the  town.  And,  but  for  those 
mysterious  excursions  he  made  from  time  to  time 
away  from  Berton,  you  might  have  supposed  he 
had  forgotten  the  world  beyond  these  hills.  I  had 
an  old  plush-bound  family  album  with  silver  clasps 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  255 

which  amused  him  as  a  picture  book  entertains  a 
child.  He'd  turn  the  pages  of  this  book,  smile  over 
the  chignon  headdress  of  the  women  and  the 
ludicrously  dignified  faces  of  the  men.  He  wanted 
to  know  who  this  one  was  and  that  one,  encourag 
ing  me  to  become  the  Boswell  biographer  of  these 
men  and  women,  most  of  whom  were  dead  and 
gone  before  he  was  born.  Occasionally  he  would 
look  up  at  me  when  I'd  be  chanting  my  tale  about 
one  of  them.  And  I'd  feel  like  an  old  spinnet 
tinkling  a  tune. 

There  was  the  picture  of  a  child  somewhere  in 
the  album,  a  little  saucer-faced  girl  with  colourless 
fair  hair,  wide  eyes,  and  a  turned-up  nose. 

"Do  you  remember  her?"  he  asked  mischiev 
ously  the  first  time  he  saw  it. 

"Only  vaguely,"  I  answered,  confused. 

"Funny  little  smudge,"  eying  me  provocatively. 
"I  suppose  she  was  a  good  little  thing!" 

"I  can't  say,  it's  so  long  ago,"  I  answered,  smil 
ing.  "The  chief  thing  I  recall  about  her  at  that 
age  was  that  she  believed  in  a  land  where  the 
clouds  lived." 

He  closed  the  album,  arose,  and  went  to  the  win 
dow.  The  weather  was  very  bad.  Snow  covered 
the  ground,  every  bough  and  twig  was  limned  with 
frost.  The  church  across  the  way  looked  as  if  an 
old-fashioned  white  counterpane  had  been  spread 


256  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

over  it  with  a  fringe  of  icicles  hanging  from  the 
eaves. 

"We  are  in  for  a  long  freeze,"  I  said  presently, 
when  he  had  returned  to  the  fire. 

"Madam,"  he  began,  ignoring  the  weather  and 
addressing  me  in  the  exaggerated  manner  he  often 
was  pleased  to  affect,  "may  I  ask  you  a  delicate 
question?" 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked,  looking  up  from  my 
knitting. 

"When  a  saint  is  alone  in  her  house,  when  the 
little  girl  is  gone  who  believed  in  the  land  where  the 
clouds  live,  and  she  has  served  a  long,  long  sentence 
to  just  faith  in  the  evidence  of  things  unseen,  what 
are  her  thoughts?" 

"There  are  no  such  saints.  When  you  are  alone 
you  are  not  a  saint  any  more  than  you  are  a 
colonel,  or — a  doctor  of  divinity!"  I  answered. 

"What  then?"  he  demanded. 

"Always  just  yourself,  no  spiritual  airs,  no 
worldly  airs.  If  you've  set  yeast  to  rise,  you 
watch  it.  If  some  one  is  in  distress,  you  think  of 
him,  on  a  day  like  this,  and  of  the  birds  in  the  snow. 
You  are  in  and  out  of  the  spirit  like  a  woman  is  in 
and  out  of  her  house,  attending  to  the  things  out 
side  as  well  as  to  prayers  inside.  If  the  Lord  in 
tended  that  we  should  live  only  in  the  spirit,  He 
would  not  have  made  us  so  carefully  in  the  flesh,"  I 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  257 

concluded,  looking  at  him  significantly,  for  he  had 
been  preaching  then  on  the  Beatitudes  for  eight 
Sabbaths  in  succession.  And  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount  differs  from  the  Ten  Commandments  as  a 
code  of  laws  governing  the  spiritual  life  differs  from 
one  laid  down  for  just  the  moral  Life  in  this  present 
world. 

What  I  hoped  he'd  understand  was  that  the  back 
of  my  soul  was  aching  from  so  much  Gospel 
stretching.  But  he  evaded  the  issue. 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  smiling.  "What  were  you 
about  to  tell  me  when  you  interrupted  yourself?" 

"It  is  nothing  really  to  tell,  but  when  one  grows 
old  there  are  things  in  the  Scriptures  which  stand 
out  and  up  as  if  they  were  looking  at  you,"  I  ad 
mitted  reluctantly,  knowing  that  he  was  tempt 
ing  my  heavenly  confidences  as  he  often  did. 

"What,  for  example?"  he  asked. 

"The  messengers  that  the  Lord  sent,"  I  con 
fessed.  "When  I  was  young  the  angels  who  ap 
peared  to  Abraham  and  to  Jacob  and  to  the  others, 
you  know,  they  belonged  back  there,  like  the  rod 
with  which  Moses  smote  the  rock.  But  now, 
when  all  the  prophecies  of  my  years  have  been  ful 
filled,  when  there  is  no  one  to  come,  when  I  am  old 
and  alone  in  my  house — it's  foolish,  but  I'm  always 
expecting  a  messenger — not  the  terrible  one  who 
cries:  'Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door!'  but  a  little 


258  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

old   daily  bread  messenger   of  His  loving  kind 


ness." 


"I  understand,"  he  answered  gently. 

"It's  just  a  feeling,"  I  went  on,  "and  the  queer 
part  is  that  long  ago  I  saw  the  pictures  of  one  of 
those  angels.  Wings  and  flaming  sword  he  had, 
but,  dear  me,  his  legs  were  so  thin,  and  he  wore 
striped  stockings!" 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  shouted  with 
laughter. 

"So,  I'm  always  expecting  one  like  that,  with 
striped  stockings.  Isn't  it  awful?" 

"It's  delightful!  "he  cried. 

What  I  am  trying  to  tell  is  that  though  this  man 
preached  the  word  in  a  manner  to  shrive  us  of  our 
very  flesh,  he  was  himself  as  simple  and  kind  as  if 
he'd  chosen  himself  to  be  a  child  in  all  things.  But 
the  moment  you  trod  upon  his  Gospel  grounds  he 
was  not  the  same.  You  felt  the  Cross  in  him,  a 
fanatical  negation  of  life.  He  was  a  sort  of  high 
wayman  of  the  spirit,  bent  upon  robbing  us  of  the 
things  of  time  and  sense. 

"Brother  Wade,"  I  said  one  day,  "your  ser 
mons  on  the  Beatitudes  are  very  strong." 

He  did  not  reply,  merely  fixed  his  eye  upon  me 
and  waited  for  what  he  must  have  felt  was  coming. 

"But,"  I  went  on  lamely,  "they  are  designed  to 
be  more  gradual  in  their  effects,  to  develop  spiritual 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  259 

standards  in  nations  through  ages;  not — not  all  at 
once  and  now." 

"Why  not  for  each  individual  man  and  now?" 
he  objected  quickly. 

"Because  for  one  man  or  one  set  of  men  to  live 
literally  like  that  would  tempt  too  many  others  to 
take  advantage  of — well,  of  their  Christian  help 
lessness." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  the  issue?  One  must 
be  willing  to  lose  the  whole  wrorld,"  he  returned 
obstinately. 

"Willing  or  not,  it  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
We  can't  do  it.  The  world's  here.  And  we  are  in 
it.  Not  even  faith  can  remove  us  from  it." 

"If  I  believed  that,  I'd  surrender  my  credentials 
to-morrow,"  he  answered,  turning  away. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday  and  the  storm  broke, 
of  which  it  seemed  I  alone  had  been  the  weather 
prophet,  for  the  amazement  upon  the  faces  of  the 
congregation  as  Felix  Wade  unfolded  his  plan  was 
complete  and  far  from  Christian. 

He  read  the  story  of  the  rich  young  ruler,  and  he 
took  as  his  text  the  advice  of  Jesus  to  that  young 
man:  "Sell  whatsoever  thou  hast,  and  give  to  the 
poor  .  .  .  take  up  thy  cross,  and  follow  me!" 

It  was  a  soft  morning  in  the  early  spring.  The 
fragrance  of  the  warming  earth  and  of  secret 
flowers  filled  the  air.  Through  the  windows  we 


260  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

could  see  the  pale  green  mist  of  tender  leaves 
swinging  like  a  veil  from  every  shrub  and  tree. 

No  one  listened  very  attentively.  The  people 
were  relaxed,  drowsy  with  the  sweet  somnambu- 
lance  of  spring.  We  supposed  Brother  Wade  was 
about  to  deliver  the  annual  missionary  sermon  re 
quired  of  every  Methodist  itinerant.  At  the  close 
of  the  service  we  expected  him  to  take  up  the  for 
eign  missionary  collection,  which  is  usually  done  at 
this  season. 

I  have  heard  so  many  missionary  sermons  myself 
that  I  feel  I  can  do  my  duty  and  pay  what  I  ought 
to  pay  to  the  cause  without  taxing  myself  to  listen 
very  closely  to  what  the  preacher  says,  just  as  I 
sometimes  leave  him  to  lead  the  prayer  without 
following  that  very  carefully.  I  caught  a  sentence 
here  and  there  because  he  was  an  abrupt  speaker 
who  sometimes  shocked  the  very  sleepers  in  the 
church  with  a  dash  of  cold-water  Gospel.  I  re 
called  afterward  that  he  said  in  the  beginning  of 
his  discourse  something  like  this:  "We  have  never 
proved  the  existence  of  Almighty  God,  because  we 
have  never  lived  by  faith.  We  only  profess  to  be 
lieve.  We  actually  live  as  if  there  was  no  Provi 
dence.  This  is  as  true  of  the  Christian  churches  as 
it  is  of  the  unchristian  world.  The  way  to  prove 
the  omnipotence  and  fatherhood  of  God  is  to  try 
Him  out  by  the  Word.  If  we  do  not  then  receive 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  261 

the  evidences  of  salvation,  the  joy  and  peace  of  the 
saints,  then  there  is  no  God." 

Well,  I  wished  he  had  not  said  that,  but  I  com 
forted  myself  that  no  one  appeared  to  be  listening, 
and  that  every  member  had  already  made  up  his 
mind  what  he  would  or  would  not  give  to  foreign 
missions  anyhow.  So  I  settled  down  until  he 
should  finish  with  the  missionary  journeys  of 
Paul,  which  are  always  the  major  part  of  every 
preacher's  appeal  for  missions.  It  was  not  until 
later  that  I  remembered  the  emphasis  with  which 
he  dwelt  upon  the  fact  that  Paul's  chief  purpose 
was  to  win  converts  to  the  Christian  faith.  Natu 
rally  this  would  be  the  object  of  a  Christian  mis 
sionary.  But  as  he  went  on  about  Paul  it  seemed 
to  me  that  he  was  poking  at  him,  as  if  he  merely 
forgave  this  great  disciple  for  doing  no  better, 
because  the  times  were  hard  and  men  had  not 
yet  a  clear  vision  of  Christianity.  He  called 
the  Crusaders  the  second  great  missionary  move 
ment:  "Still,  brethren,  to  win  converts  to  their 
faith,  even  by  force  of  amis,"  he  concluded. 
"But  proselyting  is  not  really  characteristic  of 
the  spirit  of  Christ.  To  love  and  to  serve  every 
man,  to  give  all  you  have  and  to  follow  with  the 
cross  of  Christ,  this  is  the  purpose  of  missions. 
Mere  preaching  does  not  and  never  will  prove  the 
Christian  faith." 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

I  looked  round  to  see  if  any  one  had  noticed  that 
he  accused  Paul  of  proselyting.  But  Sam  Parks 
was  obviously  asleep  and  Tom  Warren  was  nod 
ding.  The  women  didn't  count.  They  can  be 
sound  asleep  mentally  while  they  stare  like  patient 
saints  into  the  very  face  of  the  preacher. 

"Now,  brethren,"  he  went  on  in  his  coldly 
modulated  voice,  "we  are  in  the  midst  of  the  third 
great  missionary  movement. 

"At  the  present  moment  there  is  a  double  line 
of  fire  and  death  stretched  across  the  face  of 
Europe.  Six  million  men  are  fighting  six  million 
men.  The  tribal  atrocities  of  the  Middle  Ages 
have  been  reduced  to  the  exact  modern  science 
of  the  most  deadly  warfare.  All  the  resources 
and  wealth  of  these  nations  are  being  taxed  to 
expose  as  many  men  as  possible  to  death.  They 
are  perishing  by  the  thousands  every  day,  of  such 
wounds  and  tortures  as  were  never  made  by  scalp 
ing  savages.  These  unhappy  men  are  more  truly 
the  victims  of  their  own  governments  than  they 
are  of  the  enemy.  We  have  but  one  explanation 
of  this  horror,  brethren,  that  the  nations  engaged 
in  this  conflict  are  not  Christian  nations.  They 
do  not  believe  and  never  have  believed  in  the 
teachings  of  Christ. 

"It  is  not  my  purpose  to  discuss  this  reversion 
to  type.  Civilization  never  converted  a  savage 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  263 

into  a  Christian.  On  the  contrary,  it  may  en 
hance  his  ferocity  and  his  capacity  to  achieve 
every  crime  without  breaking  a  single  law,  as 
is  now  proved  by  this  wave  of  arson  and  murder 
sweeping  over  the  old  world.  But  my  purpose  is 
to  call  your  attention  to  the  miracle  of  Christian 
missions  in  our  own  country,  still  the  land  of  peace 
and  ideals. 

"During  the  past  six  months  more  American 
missionaries  have  gone  to  the  war  zone  than  the 
Christian  churches  have  sent  out  in  fifty  years. 
More  money  has  been  spent  in  this  work  than 
our  foreign-mission  funds  amount  to  in  ten  years 
— nearly  eighteen  million,  not  counting  private 
charities  and  gifts.  Every  one  of  these  mission 
aries  is  exposed  to  greater  dangers  than  Paul 
encountered  even  in  the  prison  at  Rome.  They 
have  died  as  bravely  as  Paul  died.  They  have 
suffered  as  the  early  martyrs  suffered,  and  with 
no  less  courage. 

"Brethren,"  he  cried,  lifting  his  voice  in  pas 
sionate  eloquence,  "these  missionaries  were  not 
sent  by  the  Christian  churches  of  this  country. 
The  moneys  they  have  spent  in  the  relief  of  the 
suffering,  wounds,  and  poverty  was  not  furnished 
by  Christian  denominations!  And  they  have  not 
gone  to  win  converts  or  to  impose  their  creed  upon 
other  men,  but  literally  to  succour,  to  give  all  they 


264  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

have  and  themselves  even  to  death,  that  they 
may  show  mercy  and  love  and  become  the  strength 
of  the  weak  and  the  refuge  of  the  destitute.  For 
the  first  time  the  spiritual  forces  in  a  nation  at 
large  have  proved  superior  to  the  spiritual  forces 
of  mere  churches.  Before  this  time  we  knew 
there  were  many  Christians  in  this  nation;  now 
we  know  that  this  is  literally  a  Christian  nation, 
supporting  many  churches!" 

Sam  Parks  sat  up,  snorted,  and  looked  round  as 
if  he'd  heard  a  clap  of  thunder  and  wondered 
where  the  cloud  was.  Everybody  moved  a  little. 
The  people  were  like  leaves  suddenly  shaken  by 
a  wind  on  a  summer  day.  What  was  the  matter? 
Something  was  wrong.  We  smelled  the  brim 
stone  odour  of  heresy — or  was  it  heresy? 

"Brethren,"  Felix  Wade  went  on,  after  a  pause 
during  which  he  regarded  us  steadily,  "  the  churches 
are  still  taking  collections  this  year  for  missions 
in  China,  Africa,  and  Japan,  to  win  converts  for 
the  Methodists,  Baptists,  and  Presbyterians.  But 
has  this  church  as  a  church — has  any  church  in 
Berton — given  one  dollar  this  year  to  the  Red 
Cross  missionaries  on  the  battlefields  of  Europe? 
The  Christian  organizations  in  this  town  represent 
denominations  whose  properties,  all  told,  are 
worth  millions  of  dollars.  Our  own  Methodist 
people  are  at  the  present  time  building  a  million- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  265 

dollar  church  and  a  six  or  seven  million  dollar 
university,  while  a  million  women  and  children  in 
Belgium  and  Poland  and  France  are  without  food. 
We  are,  like  Dives,  forgetting  Lazarus  at  the  gate, 
preparing  to  build  yet  greater  churches! 

"Let  no  man  among  you  excuse  his  fault  in  this 
matter!"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice  and  sweeping 
a  gesture  over  us  like  a  sickle  reaping  tares.  "If 
you  say  these  are  not  Christian  missionaries,  but 
merely  humanitarians  gone  with  no  other  motive 
to  the  war  zone,  you  condemn  yourselves,  for 
Christianity  is  humanitarianism.  As  Cadmus 
introduced  letters  into  Greece,  so  did  Jesus  Christ 
introduce  the  sense  of  love,  sacrifice,  and  mercy 
into  the  experience  of  mankind.  He  was  the  great 
Humanitarian.  Do  you  think  it  mattered  to 
Him  whether  we  joined  converts  to  our  church? 
No,  by  the  living  God!  No!  He  came  to  seek 
and  to  save  that  which  was  lost.  Nothing  else. 
A  Hindu  who  practises  chastity,  honesty,  sacrifice, 
love,  and  mercy  is  no  less  a  Christian  than  a 
Methodist  bishop!" 

Well,  it  was  awful,  but  he  still  had  us  by  the 
hair  of  the  head,  and  we  were  not  in  a  position  to 
cry  out. 

"Are  we  to  have  no  part  as  a  church  in  the 
greatest,  most  truly  Christian  missionary  work 
ever  performed  in  the  world?"  he  went  on.  "I 


266  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

cannot  believe  it,  my  brethren.  If  a  man  is  dying 
at  your  door,  why  step  over  his  body  to  mail  a 
contribution  to  a  mission  in  China?  It  is  my 
privilege  to  remind  you  of  your  duty.  'Sell  what 
soever  thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor  .  . 
take  up  thy  cross,  and  follow  me.'  There  is  no 
other  way,  brethren,  not  in  this  great  emergency, 
even  to  keep  the  peace  of  this  nation.  We  must 
be  blameless.  Therefore,  I  put  the  question  to 
you  straight.  Whom  will  you  have  from  this 
church  to  work  in  the  American  missions  upon 
the  battlefields  of  Europe?" 

He  asked  that  as  simply  as  if  he  had  said: 
"Whom  will  you  elect  as  delegate  to  the  District 
Conference?" 

"The  members  of  this  church  can  easily  afford 
a  thousand  dollars  toward  the  support  of  this 
missionary  without  selling  all  they  have.  What 
we  wish  to  know  now  is — who  will  go?" 

The  congregation  could  not  have  been  more 
astonished  if  this  church  had  been  a  soulless  cor 
poration  asked  to  send  a  missionary  to  China. 
It  was  not  that  we  were  soulless,  but  the  only 
thing  that  protects  the  disciples  of  any  religion 
is  their  creed  and  their  traditions.  Otherwise  we 
must  literally  follow  the  spirit  which  takes  no 
account  of  the  needs  and  demands  of  material 
life.  Therefore,  we  were  disturbed,  almost  visibly 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  267 

indignant,  at  this  demand,  which  was  foreign  to 
our  methods.  Also  it  was  radical.  There  was 
no  provision  in  the  Discipline  of  our  church  for 
what  Brother  Wade  proposed.  The  governing 
powers  control  the  income  from  every  charge  as 
rigidly  as  if  they  were  rents  collected.  Besides, 
we  had  our  missions  established  in  heathen  lands 
for  the  purposes  of  converting  the  people  to  Chris 
tianity.  What  could  we  do?  Six  assessments 
besides  the  pastor's  salary  are  laid  upon  every 
Methodist  church.  Well,  it  was  unthinkable, 
this  proposition  to  raise  a  thousand  dollars  extra 
for  work  in  the  war  zone ! 

Sally  Parks  leaned  over  and  whispered:  "Is  he 
crazy?" 

"No,  he  isn't  accustomed  to  being  a  Christian, 
so  he  thinks  he  ought  to  be  one,"  I  whispered 
back,  determined  to  defend  his  divine  foolish 
ness  if  I  could. 

"WTiat'd  you  say?"  gasped  Sally,  who  never 
can  take  a  thing  until  it's  made  very  plain  to 
her. 

"I  say,  Felix  Wade  must  have  been  licensed  to 
preach  as  soon  as  he  was  converted.  I've  always 
felt  that  there  was  something  terribly  newborn 
to  God  in  him.  He  doesn't  know  anything  about 
the  government  of  the  church." 

Sally  drew  back  and  looked  at  me.     She  hopes 


268  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

and  believes  I'm  a  good  Christian,  but  she  thinks 
I'm  erratic  and  at  times  viperish. 

We  could  hear  furiously  sibilant  comments 
from  the  people  behind  us. 

"He  hasn't  even  taken  the  regular  assessments 
yet!" 

"A  thousand  dollars !  When  we've  been  robbed 
this  whole  winter  on  account  of  this  war.  He 
won't  get  ten  cents ! " 

"And  who  does  he  think  will  go?    Nobody!" 

"I  told  you  when  he  came  with  an  automobile, 
a  Chinese  servant,  and  a  bulldog  that  something 
was  wrong!" 

"What  is  wrong?  What's  the  matter  with 
him?" 

"Crazy,  that's  what.     Wandered  off!" 

This  was  followed  by  a  suppressed  titter. 

All  this  time  Felix  Wade  stood  leaning  upon 
the  pulpit,  his  arms  folded,  with  his  eyes  covering 
us  like  spiritual  revolvers.  The  whispering  died 
away.  The  tension  was  awful,  especially  as  not 
one  of  us  expected  a  response  to  his  appeal. 

Molly  Brown  was  at  her  wit's  ends.  If  she 
could  have  gone  to  the  altar  as  usual  and  settled 
it  that  way!  But  the  thing  demanded  was  not 
in  her  line.  Charlotte  braced  herself,  reared  back, 
and  looked  as  if  heaven  and  earth  could  not  move 
her.  Tom  Warren  was  chewing  very  fast,  his 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  269 

white  beard  wagging  and  his  eyes  darting  dollar- 
marked  indignation  in  every  direction. 

Then  we  heard  some  one  stumble  into  the  aisle 
far  back  in  the  church.  When  something  is  about 
to  happen  of  which  you  do  not  approve  and  against 
which  you  are  not  in  position  to  protest,  it  is  best 
to  keep  your  eyes  upon  vacancy  and  let  it  happen. 
So  we  did.  No  one  turned  his  head;  every  eye 
was  riveted  upon  nothing. 

Doctor  Edd  appeared,  walking  wearily  as  if  it 
was  a  day's  journey  from  the  publican  bench  to  the 
altar.  As  he  drew  nearer  he  seemed  to  shrink 
pierced  now  from  behind  by  so  many  eyes. 

"Brother  Wade,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "if  no 
one  else  will  go  I'd  like  to.  I've  longed  for  this 
chance  since  the  war  began.  But,"  he  added, 
looking  up  frankly,  "I'm  not  fit." 

"The  hour  makes  the  man.  This  is  your  hour, 
Doctor,"  said  Brother  Wade.  Then  addressing  the 
congregation,  he  added:  "Brethren,  we  are  very 
fortunate  in  securing  the  doctor  for  this  service." 

He  went  on  to  say  that  he  hoped  the  necessary 
funds  would  be  subscribed  at  once.  He  would  not 
take  a  public  collection,  but  leave  it  to  each  mem 
ber's  conscience  to  give  what  he  could.  The 
Methodists  buzzed  like  a  swarm  of  angry  bees 
during  the  days  that  followed.  The  stewards  of 
the  church  were  disgusted.  If  Wade  attended  to 


270  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

his  business  and  to  the  collection  of  the  regular 
assessments,  he'd  show  some  sense. 

I  held  my  peace,  which  was  not  peace  at  all,  and 
said  nothing.  But  the  more  I  thought  of  the  way 
our  pastor  had  belittled  the  missionary  work  of  the 
church  in  foreign  lands,  the  more  I  thought  about 
getting  converts,  the  significance  implied,  the 
madder  I  was.  If  he'd  only  used  common  sense 
he'd  have  known  that  we  couldn't  get  the  money, 
and  that  Doctor  Edd  was  a  good  sinner  but  not  to 
be  trusted  upon  a  mission  like  this.  But  Felix 
Wade  did  not  know  a  human  thing  about  us.  That 
was  his  limitation.  He  had  stuck  to  his  promise 
to  know  nothing  among  us  save  Jesus  Christ  and 
Him  crucified — which  was  the  same  thing  as  being 
hopelessly  ignorant  of  our  essential  attributes  for 
living  in  Berton. 

Well,  I  stood  the  strain  as  long  as  I  could.  Then 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  have  it  out  with  him  and 
tell  him  a  few  things.  This  time  I  would  not  allow 
him  to  wheedle  the  own  tongue  out  of  my  head  to 
tell  what  he  wanted  to  hear.  I'd  say  what  I  had 
to  say,  if  it  was  the  last  talking  I  did  in  this 
world. 

This  was  Thursday  afternoon.  I  was  on  my  way 
to  the  Woman's  Missionary  meeting.  I  tied  my 
bonnet  on  tighter  than  usual  and  sailed  first  across 
the  street  to  the  parsonage. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  271 

"Come  in!"  Brother  Wade  called  cheerfully, 
hurrying  down  the  steps  the  way  he  always  does, 
to  conduct  me  up  them. 

"No,"  I  said  grimly,  "I've  got  something  to  say 
and  I'm  going  to  begin  now." 

He  looked  at  me  mildly,  as  much  as  to  say: 
"Dear  lady,  you  are  winded  already,  better  sit 
down ! "  But  I  would  not.  I  planted  my  fore  feet, 
so  to  speak,  and  turned  the  heels  of  my  indignation 
full  upon  him. 

"Brother  Wade,  I've  been  thinking  of  what  you 
said  Sunday  about  our  missionary  work." 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  as  if  that  was  what  I  should 
have  been  doing. 

"And  I  just  want  to  say  that  the  Methodist 
Church  is  not  to  blame  for  not  having  missions  and 
missionaries  in  Germany  and  France  and  England. 
Until  this  war  began  there  was  a  general  impression 
to  the  effect  that  these  were  Christian  nations." 
When  I  get  started  I  can  talk  very  fast,  and  I  did 
now,  smacking  my  fist  on  my  palms  for  emphasis. 
"For  nearly  a  hundred  years  we've  been  sending 
salvation  to  the  heathens,  and  a  hundred  years 
after  this  war's  ended  we'll  be  doing  that." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  agreed  soothingly  as  he  led  me  up 
the  steps  in  spite  of  my  wishing  to  hold  back. 
"But  what's  the  matter?" 

"I  was  helping  to  pay  the  expenses  of  a  Bible 


272  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

woman  in  Siam  before  you  were  born!"  I  gasped 
as  we  reached  the  top. 

"Oh,  not  so  long  ago  as  that!"  he  objected 
mischievously  as  he  literally  landed  me  in  a 
chair. 

"This  church  has  always  stood  for  missions,  and 
it  doesn't  become  our  pastor  to  reproach  us  be 
cause  we  are  not  prepared  to  take  care  of  Christian 
folk  who  should  know  better  than  to  murder  one 
another,"  I  concluded  with  something  very  near  a 
sob. 

"The  church  of  God  must  always  be  prepared, 
at  least  in  the  spirit,  to  serve  and  to  pity  and  to  for 
give,"  he  said,  looking  at  me  gravely. 

"Well,  don't  we  do  that?  For  forty  years  I've 
pinched  and  saved  and  given  to  the  church.  Most 
of  us  have  made  sacrifices  for  the  work!"  I  cried 
indignantly. 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  of  it.  But  there  is  no  end  to 
these  demands.  We  must  sacrifice  all,  if  necessary, 
give  all,  if  necessary,"  he  answered. 

"And  who,  then,  will  care  for  us,  feed  and  clothe 
us?"  I  demanded. 

"Foxes  have  holes,  and  birds  of  the  air  have 
nests,  but  the  Son  of  Man  hath  not  where  to  lay  His 
head!"  he  repeated  slowly. 

Well,  you  can't  answer  that.  So  I  just  sat  there 
feeling  the  tears  upon  my  cheeks,  knowing  that 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  273 

something  was  wrong,   not  able  to  tell   exactly 
what  was  wrong. 

"Brother  Wade,"  I  began  with  an  effort,  "I'm 
an  old  woman.  I  have  no  possible  way  of  earning 
my  own  livelihood.  My  income  amounts  to  less 
than  three  hundred  dollars  a  year.  I  pay  fifty 
dollars  of  that  to  the  church.  But  I've  always 
stood  by  the  pastor." 

"Yes?"  He  made  it  a  question  as  he  watched 
me  untying  the  corner  of  my  handkerchief. 

"Here's  twenty -five  cents  toward  that  Red 
Cross  fund." 

He  took  it  and  looked  up  at  me  with  scandalous 
wit,  as  if  he'd  won  a  bet  which  I'd  just  paid. 

"  You  are  as  likely  to  raise  a  thousand  dollars  out 
of  this  church  as  Doctor  Edd  is  to  remain  sober,"  I 
said,  half  crying. 

He  went  on  turning  over  my  little  slick  quarter 
in  his  hand  and  grinning  at  it. 

"I'm  greatly  encouraged,"  he  answered  after  a 
pause.  "Practically  all  the  money  has  been 
raised." 

"What's  that?  "I  gasped. 

"I  say  we  have  the  thousand  dollars,  and  the 
doctor  is  still  sober!" 

You  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather 
I  was  so  astonished.     Then  I  thought  of  some 
thing — that  others  had  been  more  generous,  that 


274  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

my  contribution  must  look  very  mean  and  stingy 
in  comparison.  The  children  of  God  do  have  their 
little  vanities,  too.  I  fished  up  another  quarter 
from  my  pocket  and  offered  it  to  him  as  I  arose. 

"  Maybe  I  ought  to  give  more,  since  others  have 
given  so  much,"  I  said  tearfully,  "but — I  haven't 
the  faith  to  do  it!" 

I  went  down  the  steps  feeling  very  poor,  not  be 
cause  I  had  so  little  but  because  I  dared  give  so 
little.  He  accompanied  me  to  the  gate,  regarding 
me  from  beneath  his  brows  with  a  smile  half 
troubled,  half  tender. 

The  next  Sunday  he  took  the  breath  out  of  the 
congregation  by  announcing  at  the  close  of  the 
service  that  the  money  for  the  Red  Cross  work  of 
our  church  had  been  paid,  and  that  Doctor  Edd 
was  already  on  his  way  to  New  York,  from  which 
port  he  would  sail  for  France. 

Everybody  looked  at  his  neighbour  with  this 
question  in  his  eye:  "How  much  did  you  give?" 
But  no  one  appeared  to  be  willing  to  let  his  right 
hand  know  what  his  left  had  done  in  this  business. 
As  for  me,  I'd  given  so  little  that  I  told  Sally,  feel 
ing  it  was  not  proper  to  take  more  credit  than  was 
due. 

For  some  indefinable  reason  the  church's 
worldly  confidence  in  Brother  Wade  was  not 
strengthened  by  this  performance.  The  members 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  275 

stood  in  awe  of  him.  But  no  fault  could  be  found 
with  him.  He  attended  to  his  pastoral  duties  as  if 
they  were  not  duties  at  all,  but  the  natural  ex 
pression  of  his  interest  and  good  will. 

One  circumstance  afforded  much  secret  satis 
faction  to  some  of  us.  This  was  his  attitude  to 
Lily  Triggs.  Later,  when  the  question  arose,  no 
one  could  remember  introducing  him  to  her  when 
he  first  came  to  us.  We  did  recall  the  fact  that  she 
had  not  gone  up  on  this  occasion  in  her  usual  ami 
able  angel  manner  to  welcome  him.  Before  long  it 
was  apparent  that  she  was  actually  trying  to  get 
out  of  the  choir.  She  was  frequently  absent. 

Sally  said  she  didn't  think  Lily  was  well,  she  had 
lost  interest  in  everything.  And  the  Suffrage 
League  was  on  its  last  legs. 

"  As  for  the  choir,''  she  added,  "  I  think  the  reason 
she  neglects  that  is  on  account  of  Brother  Wade." 

"What's  he  done?  "I  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing.  But  you  know  he's  queer.  Lily 
told  Charlotte  that  he  didn't  appeal  to  her.  She 
says  he's  so  antipathetic  she  simply  can't  sing. 
Musical  temperament,  I  suppose." 

"I  doubt  that." 

"What  can  be  the  matter  then?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  but  Lily's  not  the  woman  to  have 
her  singing  voice  quenched  and  her  light  put  out  by 
a  handsome  young  man  with  the  manners  of  a 


276  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

knight  and  the  soul  of  a  priest.  She'd  never  be 
able  to  resist  that  combination,  unless  there  was  a 
more  definite  trouble  than  the  squirming  of  her 
musical  temperament." 

"Mary,  your  suspicions  of  that  poor  girl  are  un 
worthy  of  you!"  she  chided. 

"I  know  it,  and  the  Lord  will  remember  it 
against  Lily  that  she  fired  the  mind  of  an  old 
woman  with  suspicions  unworthy  of  a  Christian," 
I  answered  shamelessly. 

We  had  in  March  of  this  year  a  heated  municipal 
campaign  conducted  with  much  animus  in  favour 
of  a  more  economical  government,  and  upon  the 
demand  that  statements  of  the  town's  expenses 
and  balances  should  be  published  monthly.  The 
citizens  were  taxed  to  the  limit  allowed  by  the  laws 
of  this  state,  but  no  one  knew  what  became  of  the 
money,  and  so  on,  and  so  forth.  It  was  the  usual 
thing — one  set  of  politicians  trying  to  put  another 
set  out  of  office.  But  it  was  a  popular  cause.  The 
Baptist  and  Presbyterian  ministers  were  high  up  in 
the  Good  Government  League,  and  Tom  Warren 
was  running  on  the  reform  ticket  for  mayor. 
Naturally  the  Methodists  expected  the  pastor  to 
"take  a  stand."  Every  Sunday  we  listened  in 
vain  for  a  sermon  on  the  duties  of  Christian  citizen 
ship.  Finally  a  committee  called  on  him  and  asked 
for  his  support. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  277 

"As  a  Christian  minister  we  feel  that  you  should 
let  Berton  know  how  you  stand  in  this  fight, 
Brother  Wade,"  said  Sam  Parks,  who  was  the 
spokesman. 

"When  I  became  a  Christian  minister,  Brother 
Parks,  I  withdrew  from  the  business  world  to 
engage  exclusively  in  the  business  of  preaching 
the  Gospel  and  living  accordingly.  That  requires 
all  my  strength,  time,  and  courage.  Besides,  this 
town  is  a  corporation  like  any  other.  Every 
citizen  in  it  is  a  stockholder.  If  a  corporation 
mismanages  its  affairs,  that  is  a  secular  matter 
in  which  the  church  of  God  should  have  no  part. 
I  am  not  here  to  accuse  one  man  or  to  recommend 
another,  but  to  keep  ever  before  you  the  Son  of 
Man,  that  you  may  follow  Him  and  forsake  all 
strife,  every  wordly  thought  or  interest  which  con 
flicts  with  His  teachings." 

"But  you  are  in  favour  of  law  and  order  and 
honest  government?"  persisted  Sam. 

"So  is  every  man  in  Berton,"  he  laughed.  "You 
are  only  one  party  of  men  accusing  another  party 
of  men.  I  will  admit  something,  Brother  Parks, 
which  I  never  meant  should  be  known  here," 
he  went  on  after  a  pause.  "  Before  I  became  what 
I  am  I  was  for  years  interested  in  political  matters. 
So  long  as  I  am  a  Christian  minister  I  shall  not 
be  a  politician  nor  take  part  in  these  issues.  This 


278  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

is  not  a  criticism  upon  those  who  do.  I  merely 
say  that  one  must  choose  either  the  one  or  the 
other.  You  can't  be  a  preacher  and  fight  the 
members  of  your  own  church  in  a  political  cam 
paign." 

This  was  the  first  reference  Brother  Wade  had 
made  to  his  past  life.  He  consistently  evaded 
giving  further  information  about  that.  While  the 
other  preachers  in  Berton  shouted  anathemas  from 
their  pulpits  against  graft  and  exhorted  the  breth 
ren  to  vote  the  reform  ticket,  he  "availed  himself 
of  the  opportunity"  to  preach  from  this  text:  "A 
new  commandment  I  give  unto  you,  that  ye  love 
one  another." 

The  quality  of  the  man  always  determines  the 
quality  of  his  virtues  and  faith  and  even  the  use 
he  makes  of  them.  Religion  makes  some  people 
presumptuous,  ill-bred,  unspeakably  offensive. 
They  use  their  virtues  to  insult  others.  Their 
piety  is  the  fire  they  kindle  beneath  other  men's 
reputations.  They  have  the  instinct  of  spiritual 
bounders,  and  God  will  undoubtedly  keep  an  Ellis 
Island  quarantine  in  some  part  of  the  floating 
heavens  for  such  saints.  I  reckon  one  reason 
Christianity  is  not  universal  in  its  appeal  is  due 
as  much  to  this  as  to  the  obvious  hypocrisies  of 
those  who  sometimes  make  great  professions. 

Some  people  vulgarize  the  nature  of  the  Al- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  279 

mighty  by  claiming  kin  with  Him.  Felix  Wade 
was  not  one  of  these.  He  was  informed  with  the 
grace  of  goodness.  He  made  a  fine  and  delicate 
art  of  living  uprightly.  He  was  like  a  man  with 
such  a  splendid  ancestry  he  never  had  to  mention 
his  family  connections.  You  must  be  gross  enough 
yourself  to  corner  him  in  order  to  force  him  to 
admit  his  personal  relations  to  Providence.  He 
never  told  of  his  own  spiritual  struggles,  never  gave 
his  "experience."  He  simply  walked  among  us 
living  the  Word,  wearing  the  Faith  as  if  it  was  the 
dress  suit  of  his  salvation.  Sally  Parks  said  once 
that  Brother  Wade  was  so  nice  and  polite  and 
reserved  about  his  goodness  she  hated  for  him  to 
know  about  our  sins  in  Berton,  they  were  such 
common,  snub-nosed  transgressions.  Sally  is  a 
very  dull  woman,  but  she  can  feel  her  way  to 
saying  a  thing  like  that  when  smarter  folks  miss 
the  point. 

The  trouble  with  him  was  that  he  either  could 
not  or  would  not  reach  into  the  normal  life  of  the 
community.  He  was  for  placing  the  Holy  Grail 
into  every  man's  hands.  And  you  cannot  do  it. 
The  church  recoiled  from  the  literal  demands  he 
made  spiritually  upon  the  members.  The  people 
defended  themselves  from  him  by  indifference. 
But  we  might  have  got  safely  through  the  year  as 
a  dead  church  if  he  had  not  stirred  up  a  hornet's 


280  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

nest  among  the  very  elect.  I  refer  to  those  in 
whom  much  local  authority  in  the  church  is 
vested. 

Early  in  April  the  public-school  building  of 
Berton  was  burned.  Three  hundred  students 
were  turned  into  the  streets  in  the  middle  of  the 
spring  term.  It  was  a  great  misfortune,  especially 
since  Berton  is  the  educational  centre  for  a  large 
section.  The  following  Sunday  Brother  Wade 
added  an  educational  postscript  to  his  sermon. 

He  referred  to  the  burning  of  the  school.  Some 
thing  must  be  done  at  once.  He  supposed  it  was 
every  man's  business  to  help  in  this  crisis.  He 
desired,  therefore,  to  lay  a  plan  before  the  con 
gregation  by  which  the  school  term  might  be 
finished,  and  which  he  had  no  doubt  would  meet 
the  approval  of  every  Christian  man  and  woman 
present. 

"Brethren,"  he  went  on,  referring  to  a  slip  of 
notes  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  "there  are  four 
churches  in  this  town.  These  buildings  are  worth 
at  least  sixty  thousand  dollars.  They  are  only 
in  use  a  part  of  Sunday  each  week.  The  remain 
ing  six  days  they  are  closed.  They  serve  no  pur 
pose.  This  is  an  enormous  waste  of  the  church's 
property.  In  no  other  business  do  we  practise 
such  poor  economy. 

"They  should  be  open  every  day.     And  the 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  281 

business  of  salvation  should  go  on  in  them  every 
day.  Education  is  essential  to  salvation,  as 
ignorance  is  the  enemy  of  righteousness.  You 
have  in  Berton  enough  churches  to  house  all  the 
departments  of  a  university,  to  say  nothing  of  a 
high  school.  My  proposition,  brethren,  is  to  offer 
this  church  to  the  trustess  of  the  Berton  High 
School.  Doubtless  the  authorities  of  other  de 
nominations  will  be  glad  to  lend  their  churches 
also." 

I  do  not  know  of  anything  so  dangerous  to 
accepted  Christian  traditions  as  the  actual  Chris 
tianity  which  we  profess.  Nothing  else  enrages 
us  so  much  as  to  have  our  idolatries  disturbed  and 
exposed  to  our  own  gaze. 

What  Brother  Wade  had  said  was  the  literal 
truth.  There  is  scarcely  a  town  of  fifteen  hundred 
inhabitants  in  Georgia  which  has  not  enough 
empty  churches  in  it  to  serve  all  the  purposes  of 
higher  education.  Yet  it  is  the  custom  to  burden 
the  people  with  bonds  and  enormous  taxes  to  get 
schools  built,  because  to  use  the  church  for  this 
purpose  is  unthinkable.  I  do  not  know  why, 
unless  we  feel,  without  exactly  thinking  it,  that 
we  leave  the  Lord  in  His  house  when  we  close  it 
on  Sunday  evenings  and  desire  that  He  shall  not 
be  disturbed  until  we  come  again  to  Him  on  the 
next  Sabbath. 


282  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

There  was  a  moment  of  scandalized  silence 
measured  by  one  long  exchange  of  glances  be 
tween  our  pastor  and  his  congregation,  when  he 
finished  what  he  had  to  say  and  stood  waiting 
for  whatever  might  happen.  Then  Tom  Warren 
stood  up.  He  was  so  mad  that  one  almost  ex 
pected  his  beard  to  catch  fire. 

"Brother  Wade,  this  is  the  house  of  God!" 
he  began  indignantly.  "It  was  built  for  worship. 
So  long  as  I  am  one  of  the  trustees  appointed  by 
our  Conference  it  shall  never  be  profaned!" 

"How  profaned?"  asked  Brother  Wade. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  call  profanity,  but 
to  the  folks  that  built  this  house  it  would  be  a 
sacrilege  to  have  a  hundred  children  messing  in 
here,  running  in  and  out  of  the  pulpit,  cutting 
their  names  on  these  sacred  benches,  and  eating 
their  victuals  on  the  altar!" 

"It's  all  in  the  point  of  view,  my  brother," 
Brother  Wade  answered  mildly.  "  To  me  it  seems 
far  more  profane  for  a  man  to  hate  his  brethren  in 
this  house.  The  noise  a  child  makes  is  no  more 
than  the  song  of  a  sparrow  under  the  eaves.  The 
marks  he  leaves,  they  may  be  seen  and  cleared 
away,  but  who  can  defend  himself  against  the 
secret  thoughts  of  another?" 

Well,  I  can't  tell  it  the  way  they  went  on — 
Felix  Wade  in  the  pulpit,  the  three  trustees  and 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  283 

the  stewards  hopping  up  and  down  in  the  pews 
like  popcorn  on  a  hot  griddle.  They  were  all 
against  him.  And  they  said  so  with  a  vehemence 
never  seen  before  among  Christian  brethren  in 
that  place. 

The  women  kept  silent — that  is  to  say,  we  only 
whispered  the  one  to  the  other.  We  are  forbidden 
to  speak  in  the  Methodist  Church  except  to  give 
our  Christian  experience  or  to  shout.  A  woman 
cannot  even  read  the  missionary  report  of  her 
society  in  our  Quarterly  Conference.  She  can  hold 
no  office  in  the  church.  In  communities  where 
there  is  not  a  single  Christian  man  to  be  Sunday- 
school  superintendent  they  will  do  without  a 
Sunday-school  rather  than  allow  a  woman  to  take 
the  place.  The  Methodists  are  rigidly  literal  in 
their  interpretations  of  Paul's  command  that  the 
women  should  "keep  silence  in  the  churches." 
We  are  allowed  on  some  of  the  executive  boards 
and  we  are  exhorted  to  do  most  of  the  work  for 
missions,  but  the  house  of  God  is  made  a  sort  of 
reproach  to  us,  a  place  where  we  must  feel  our 
unworthiness  to  man.  I'm  not  complaining,  you 
understand,  I'm  just  telling  the  truth.  And  if 
some  of  the  women  I  know  ever  meet  Paul  in 
Paradise,  he  will  be  called  on  to  explain  what  he 
had  against  us  or  take  to  his  wings. 

We  sat  there  listening  to  Sam  Parks  tell  of  the 


284  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

awful  danger  in  secularizing  the  church  by  allow 
ing  the  children  to  say  their  lessons  in  it  until  I 
couldn't  stand  it. 

"Sally,"  I  whispered,  "one  might  think  Brother 
Wade  was  trying  to  change  this  church  into  a 
theatre  the  way  Sam's  carrying  on." 

She's  fond  of  Sam  and  will  hide  her  own  con 
victions  like  a  good  wife  to  stand  by  him.  So  she 
made  no  reply,  and  sat  beside  me,  holding  in  to 
keep  me  from  knowing  she  agreed  with  me.  But  I 
went  on: 

"If  this  church  is  more  sacred  to  these  stewards 
than  the  welfare  of  their  children,  why  don't  they 
say  so  in  the  plain  terms  of  idolatry  and  have  done 
with  it!" 

"Don't  talk  so  loud!"  continued  Sally. 

"I'm  not  talking,  my  dear,  I'm  whispering,"  I 
said,  making  my  tones  hissing  keen.  "Listen  at 
'em,  fussing  about  the  children  committing  sacri 
lege  by  romping  at  recess.  Are  you  less  sacred  to 
Sam  because  his  children  have  climbed  over  you 
and  been  rocked  to  sleep  upon  your  knees  since 
they  were  born?  I  reckon  not!" 

I  could  see  Sally's  colour  begin  to  flame,  and  she 
cast  her  eye  so  coldly  on  Sam  that  he  sat 
down. 

"These  stewards  are  just  a  gang  of  rougher, 
meaner,  older  boys,  pushing  the  little  fellows  out  of 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  285 

this  place  because  they  can!"  I  whispered  louder 
than  ever.  "Let's  get  up  and  leave." 

With  that  I  flounced  out,  followed  by  most  of  the 
women,  and  feeling  as  I  usually  do  when  I've  flung 
the  fat  in  the  fire. 

Next  to  a  revival  nothing  livens  a  church  so 
much  as  a  furious  row.  And  for  the  next  few 
weeks  every  church  in  Berton  experienced  a  kind 
of  fierce  animation.  Most  of  the  women  were  for 
opening  them  to  the  school.  All  the  deacons, 
vestrymen,  and  stewards  were  against  it.  The 
children  merely  looked  on,  listened,  and  were 
doubtless  glad  their  fathers'  spiritual  instincts 
were  stronger  than  their  paternal  instincts,  thus 
effectually  closing  the  churches  against  them. 

There  was  a  large  factory  settlement  two  miles 
from  Berton.  In  June  these  cotton  mills  were 
shut  down.  Five  hundred  people  were  thrown  out 
of  employment,  and  the  town  council  passed  a 
strict  ordinance  against  "loafers,"  which,  if  it  had 
been  enforced,  would  have  landed  some  of  our  best 
citizens  in  the  calaboose.  But  it  was  designed  to 
protect  the  town  from  the  idle  and  destitute  mill 
population.  Thus  Berton  disposed  of  a  grave 
problem  after  the  accepted  civil  method  for  dealing 
with  the  unemployed.  Whenever  a  question  of 
ethics  becomes  too  expensive  to  settle  ethically,  the 
best  way  is  to  settle  it  economically,  to  your  own 


286  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

advantage.  Berton  left  the  dead  to  bury  their 
dead  at  the  factory  and  went  on  comfortably 
about  its  own  business. 

But  Felix  Wade  began  to  visit  his  own  people  less 
and  to  spend  much  of  his  time  among  the  factory 
people.  No  one  knew  what  he  was  doing  out 
there.  Some  said  he  was  organizing  a  mission. 
We  did  know  that  he  was  neglecting  certain  finan 
cial  duties  connected  with  his  own  church  and  that 
everything  was  in  a  bad  way. 

"The  people  are  disaffected,"  Sam  Parks  said 
one  day.  "We  can't  even  get  quarterage.  We 
have  paid  Wade  less  than  two  hundred  dollars 
since  he  came  here.  It's  a  mystery  how  he  gets  on, 
unless,  as  most  of  us  believe,  he  has  private  means 
of  his  own." 

"Everything  would  clear  up  if  he'd  just  start  a 
revival.  Why  doesn't  he  do  that?"  Sally  put  in. 

"He'd  better  start  something.  Warren's  threat 
ening  to  prefer  charges  against  him  at  the  next 
Quarterly  Conference,"  grunted  Sam. 

"What  kind  of  charges?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — maladministration,  neglect 
of  duty,  anything,"  he  answered  indifferently. 

When  I  was  returning  from  the  Parkses  that 
afternoon  Brother  Wade  overtook  me.  Contrary 
to  his  usual  bantering  cheerfulness  he  had  nothing 
to  say,  beyond  admitting  at  my  suggestion  that 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  287 

it  was  a  beautiful  day.  He  was  changed.  One 
could  not  say  how,  but  there  was  a  subtle  differ 
ence,  a  remoteness,  as  if  he  had  withdrawn  his 
spirit  from  those  present.  I  looked  up  at  him 
keenly.  He  was  very  pale,  with  a  thinness  I  had 
not  noticed  before.  His  clothes  were  covered  with 
dust,  and  they  were  his  best  preaching  clothes, 
which  I  thought  was  a  pity.  It  was  queer,  seeing 
him  so  unkempt  who  had  come  to  us  so  spick-and- 
span,  as  if  we  had  worn  him  out. 

"Well,"  I  reflected  to  myself,  "he  has  worn  us 
out,  too." 

"Been  to  the  factory  again?"  I  asked,  merely  to 
break  the  silence. 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"You  are  out  there  most  of  the  tune  now,  aren't 
you?"  I  went  on,  determined  to  get  where  I  was 
going. 

"The  people  need  me,"  he  replied  with  a  gentle 
brevity  which  seemed  to  exclude  me  and  Berton 
from  that  place. 

"We  need  you,  too.  When  will  you  begin  the 
revival?" 

"What  revival?"  he  asked  dully. 

"We  always  have  one  during  August  in  our 
church.  Some  of  the  members  think  you  should 
begin  it  as  soon  as  possible,"  I  explained. 

"I'd  hoped  for  one  before  this  time,"  he  an- 


288  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

swered  regretfully,  "but  there  is  no  chance.  The 
church  is  not  ready.  The  people  will  not  give  in." 

"  Not  ready !  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  exclaimed. 
"You  have  only  to  announce  the  services.  The 
people  are  literally  hungry  for  it." 

"Sister  Thompson,  a  religious  revival  is  either  a 
reform  or  a  spiritual  orgy." 

"What's  that?"  I  interrupted,  feeling  rebuked 
by  his  tone  or  by  something  in  his  manner. 

"It  would  be  easy  to  stir  the  emotions  of  the 
people  in  this  town.  Being  dead  in  their  virtues 
they  naturally  crave  some  excitement.  If  that 
excitement  takes  the  form  of  a  religious  revival  it 
satisfies  the  conscience  and  the  appetite  for  intoxi 
cants  at  the  same  time,  but  it  is  no  less  an  orgy  than 
any  other  form  of  inebriation." 

"Don't  blaspheme  the  Holy  Spirit,  Brother 
Wade!"  I  cried,  deeply  troubled. 

"That's  what  many  a  so-called  revival  of  re 
ligion  is — a  blasphemy,"  he  answered  coldly,  and 
then  went  on  after  a  pause:  "When  the  members 
of  a  church  refuse  to  do  their  plain  duty,  when  they 
avoid  the  service  of  Christ  as  our  church  has  done 
time  and  again  this  year,  to  start  a  revival  in  it 
would  be  to  start  a  lie,  to  encourage  the  people  to 
cover  their  transgressions  with  professions  and 
prayers." 

"I    don't    understand,"    I    said    sorrowfully. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  289 

"When  people  are  moved  spiritually  they  repent 
of  their  sins  and  resolve  to  do  better.  That's  a 
revival." 

"  When  people  attend  a  highly  emotional  play  in 
a  theatre  they  are  stirred  to  tears  by  the  drama  of 
sorrow.  Their  sympathies  are  with  the  hard- 
struggling  hero  and  they  hate  the  villain  as  we  hate 
the  devil  in  a  revival.  But  all  of  that  is  lost  mo 
tion  morally.  They  go  out  to  live  exactly  as  they 
lived  before.  The  same  thing  is  true  of  a  revival. 
It  is  a  highly  emotional  dramatization  of  religious 
idealism  which  never  affects  the  character  of  people 
who  dodge  the  real  issues  in  the  Christian  life." 

"What  issues  have  we  dodged  in  this  church?" 
I  demanded  indignantly. 

"The  members  failed  to  support  the  mission 
work  in  the  war  zone.  Our  publican  alone  faced 
that." 

"But  I  thought " 

"When  there  was  a  heated  municipal  campaign 
here  in  April  more  than  a  thousand  dollars  was 
spent  to  elect  the  reform  ticket,"  he  interrupted. 
"But  when  the  school  was  burned  the  members  of 
our  church  turned  their  own  children  into  the 
streets  rather  than  permit  them  to  use  the  church 
as  a  school." 

"Yes,"  I  admitted,  "that  was  wrong." 

"When  the  mills  closed  out  here  four  weeks  ago, 


290  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

and  a  whole  community  was  left  without  employ 
ment — more  than  a  hundred  of  them  destitute — 
our  reform  mayor  and  council  passed  an  ordinance 
which  kept  them  from  setting  foot  in  this  town,  but 
not  one  dollar  has  been  contributed  to  relieve  their 
dire  distress." 

"But  we  couldn't  support  all  those  people, 
making  mendicants  of  them!"  I  protested. 

"That's  what  Christianity  is  for.  It  is  the 
science  of  humanities  applied  intelligently  to  the 
social  and  industrial  conditions  of  life.  It  is  the 
church's  business  to  study  and  actually  to  solve 
these  problems.  Believe  me,  dear  lady,  so  long  as 
we  think  of  the  life  of  Christ  in  the  terms  of  doc 
trines  and  creeds  we  shall  never  discover  what  re 
ligion  is.  What  we  call  a  revival  is  often  a  false 
stimulation  of  the  spiritual  life,  not  only  injurious 
but  blasphemous." 

"Many  do  repent  of  their  sins  during  revivals. 
They  are  converted  and  they  do  live  differently,"  I 
insisted. 

"So  far  so  good.  But  they  are  saved  only  from 
the  sins  they  had,  a  meagre  personal  salvation.  A 
man,  I  tell  you,  can  be  as  dead  in  his  virtues  as  any 
sinner  in  his  transgressions,  with  a  church  for  his 
sepulchre!" 

I  looked  at  him  too  scandalized  to  speak  the  in 
dignation  I  felt, 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  291 

"I  have  had  a  very  strange  experience,"  he  went 
on  calmly. 

"You  must  have  had!"  I  shot  back. 

"I  was  awakened  to  the  reasonableness  and  the 
human  importance  of  the  teachings  of  Jesus  out 
side  the  church.  If  I'd  been  brought  up  in  the 
church,  the  Sunday-schools,  all  that,  you  know,  I 
doubt  if  I  should  ever  have  realized  the  full  signifi 
cance  of  the  Christian  religion.  It  has  been  re 
duced  to  a  formula  there  which  the  church  can 
handle,  as  you'd  manage  any  other  business.  You 
are  taught  certain  doctrines  of  repentance  and  sal 
vation.  You  accept  a  certain  creed.  Then  you 
pay  your  dues,  and  leave  it  to  the  denominational 
boards  to  distribute  your  charities  and  send  the 
missionaries.  But  nobody  risks  the  great  experi 
ment  of  faith  and  sacrifice  except  according  to 
established  customs." 

"Well,  we  do  most  of  the  good  that's  done  in  the 
world.  And " 

"No,  we  do  not,"  he  interrupted.  "Great 
spiritual  forces  are  at  work  outside  the  church — 
blind,  desperate  energies,  but  all  moving  hi  the 
ritfht  direction.  We  shall  live  to  see  wonderful 
revivals  of  religion  in  this  nation,  which  are  pre 
paring  now  in  the  patient  adjustment  of  man  to 
man.  It  is  the  world  which  belongs  to  God,  the 
world,  which  all  Christians  are  taught  to  hate. 


£92  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

And  presently  the  world  must  save  the  churches 
again  as  it  has  purged  them  many  times  already  of 
greed  and  hypocrisies." 

"Who  are  you?"  I  demanded,  stopping  sud 
denly  to  look  him  up  and  down. 

"Felix  Wade,  pastor  in  charge  of  the  church  at 
Berton,"  he  answered  simply. 

"No,  tell  me  who  you  really  are,"  I  insisted 
earnestly. 

"The  stranger  within  your  gates,  who  is  not 
likely  to  prove  his  wings,"  he  said,  smiling  down 
at  me  in  his  familiar,  teasing  gentleness. 

You  can  always  tell  when  the  apple  has  turned 
to  ashes  on  a  man's  or  a  woman's  lips.  They  are 
sure  to  smile  too  valiantly.  I  thought  I  detected 
the  courage  of  despair  in  this  face.  So  many 
times  I  have  revived  the  sinking  souls  of  preachers 
who  were  on  the  verge  of  heresy  simply  from  phy 
sical  exhaustion,  complicated  with  some  failure  of 
cherished  hopes,  that  I  knew  what  to  do. 

"You'll  think  better  of  all  these  things  when 
you  have  rested,"  I  said  kindly.  "Come  in  now 
and  have  some  tea." 

"No,  thanks,  I'm  really  in  a  great  hurry,"  he 
said,  opening  the  gate  for  me. 

"We've  walked  as  if  we  were  going  for  the  doc 
tor,"  I  complained,  realizing  that  I  was  quite  out 
of  breath. 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  293 

"In  fact  I'm  on  my  way  now  to  telegraph  for 
one,"  he  said. 

"Who's  ill?"  I  asked  anxiously. 

"Everybody  at  the  mills,  or  at  least  they  are 
all  in  danger  of  being  ill.  We  have  fifty  cases  of 
typhoid  there  now.  Frightful  situation.  Phy 
sician  employed  by  the  company  left  when  the 
mills  closed.  No  nurses.  I  hope  to  get  what  we 
imperatively  need  to-night,  however,"  he  said, 
hurrying  off. 

I  went  in  and  sat  down  upon  my  doorstep,  which 
is  low  and  concealed  from  the  street  by  two  box 
wood  bushes.  I  had  a  good  deal  to  think  about. 

In  the  first  place,  I  was  troubled  for  the  church. 
Preachers  came  and  preachers  went,  but  the  church 
remained  with  us.  Brother  Wade  was  a  spiritual 
radical.  He  wished  us  to  live  strictly  as  if  we 
were  in  the  spirit  when  we  were  still  in  our  bodies. 
He  was  trying  to  live  among  us  without  a  working 
knowledge  of  our  strictly  secular  natures.  I  hope 
I'm  a  Christian  woman,  but  my  hope  is  tragically 
mixed  with  the  experience  I've  had  of  just  mortal 
perversity.  And  no  man  can  put  the  wisdom  of 
things  as  they  are  behind  him  without  being  more 
of  a  fool  than  the  Lord  requires  of  him.  We 
had  troubles  ahead  of  us,  I  reflected  with  a  sigh. 

Then  there  was  that  thousand  dollars  which 
the  church  had  given  to  the  Red  Cross  work  in 


294  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

the  war  zone.  Who  had  given  it?  Only  a  woman 
knows  the  sweet  anguish  of  unsatisfied  curiosity. 
And  here  was  Brother  Wade  telegraphing  for 
doctors  and  nurses  for  the  factory  folk.  Who  was 
paying  for  all  that?  I  hoped  he  would  not  lay 
the  matter  before  our  church!  He  was  always 
going  off  at  a  tangent.  Well,  he  couldn't  get  very 
far  on  the  quarterage  the  church  paid  him!  The 
question  was  how  he  made  ends  meet.  And,  by 
the  way,  where  was  his  car?  I  had  not  seen 
him  in  it  for  nearly  a  month.  Sally  and  I  ought 
to  go  out  and  take  some  things  to  the  sick  people 
at  the  factory — I'd  mention  that  to  her  to 
morrow. 

Thus  my  thoughts  ran  back  and  forth  the  way 
they  do  when  you  know  there  is  nothing  you  can 
do  to  help  matters. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  the  soft  warm  darkness 
of  a  summer  night.  The  town  is  always  very 
quiet  at  this  homing  hour.  Lights  twinkled  from 
windows  down  the  street.  Now  and  then  a  white 
moth  blew  by  like  a  blossom  in  the  darkness. 

I  may  have  dozed,  which  is  a  fault  I  have  when 
I  sit  too  long  in  one  place.  Anyhow  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  had  been  listening  drowsily  to  voices 
for  some  time  before  I  realized  that  in  fact  two 
persons  were  talking  with  suppressed  animation 
across  the  street. 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  295 

I  arose  and  peered  over  the  boxwood.  I  could 
distinguish  Lum  by  his  white  clothes,  standing 
in  the  side  door  of  the  parsonage.  The  other 
person  was  a  woman,  wrapped  on  this  summer 
night  in  a  long  black  coat. 

"No,  him  a  Clishtian  now!"  he  was  saying. 

"Don't  speak  so  loud!"  the  woman  cautioned. 

To  my  horror  I  recognized  the  thin  childish 
tones  of  Lily  Triggs'  speaking  voice.  The  next 
moment  she  moved  like  a  darker  shade  down  the 
street. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IF  THERE  is  anything  worse  for  a  woman's 
peace  of  mind  than  having  something  which 
she  cannot  tell,  it  is  suspecting  something 
which  she  does  not  know. 

The  criticism  Brother  Wade  had  made  of  the 
church  to  me  was  a  breach  of  loyalty  unpardon 
able  in  a  Methodist  preacher.  What  I  thought 
was  that  a  man  can  go  so  far  right  that,  for  all 
practical  purposes,  he  is  hopelessly  wrong.  To 
have  offered  this  defense  would  have  been  to  con 
fess  that  the  Christian  faith,  as  taught  in  the  New 
Testament,  is  an  impossible  religion — which  is  not 
so.  I  was  torn  between  the  devotion  of  a  life 
time  to  this  little  weatherbeaten  church  in  Berton 
and  sympathy  with  this  strange  young  preacher, 
who  was  beginning  to  show  the  tension  of  a  hope 
less  struggle.  I  could  not  be  with  him.  I  had 
neither  the  strength  nor  the  courage  to  make  such 
radical  changes  in  the  habits  of  my  spiritual  life, 
so  long  adjusted  to  just  the  weather  of  my  own 
human  nature. 

I  doubt  that  this  is  a  Christian  civilization, 
strictly  speaking,  or  that  there  ever  can  be  such 

296 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  297 

a  civilization.  The  best  of  us  pass,  like  Moses, 
with  only  the  vision  of  the  Promised  Land  of  our 
souls,  which  we  are  not  fit  to  enter.  Our  institu 
tions  are  designed  to  meet  the  emergencies  and 
desires  of  human  beings — not  immortal  spirits. 
Our  immediate  salvation  depends  upon  material 
conditions.  The  church  proves  this  no  less  than 
a  business  corporation.  The  ideal  may  be  spirit 
ual,  but  the  active  aim  is  always  more  and  more 
material.  The  only  difference  is  in  the  methods 
employed. 

Men  trained  to  business  and  worldly  ambitions 
achieve  wealth  and  success  by  their  own  efforts 
and  labours.  The  church  proclaims  the  Gospel 
of  sacrifice  and  achieves  wealth  and  success.  But 
it  never  earns!  From  the  earliest  days  of  re 
ligious  idolatry,  when  men  made  burnt  offerings 
to  their  gods,  until  now,  we  are  still  inspired  by 
faith  to  give  of  our  wealth  and  substance  to  the 
church — always  giving,  giving,  until  the  earth  is 
heavily  laden  with  churches  and  other  religious 
organizations,  built  and  supported  by  the  treasures 
which  we  think  we  have  laid  up  in  heaven;  while 
the  poor  are  still  poorer  and  the  good  not  much 
better. 

It  may  be  because  I  am  old  and  tired,  but  I 
cannot  see  that  these  conditions  can  be  changed. 
It  is  not  so  bad  as  it  is  just  natural.  Besides, 


298  A  Circuit  Riders  Widow 

every  time  the  church  gets  too  far  ahead  in  the 
game  the  world  steps  in  and  cleans  it  up — which 
is  also  right. 

What  Brother  Wade  wanted  was  something 
supernatural.  And  no  one  is  equal  to  that  except 
momentarily.  You  cannot  keep  it  up  and  remain 
sane. 

But  to  have  repeated  in  Berton  what  he  had 
said  would  have  started  a  scandal — a  very  easy 
thing  to  do  at  any  time.  This  gave  me  a  com 
pressed-air  feeling  every  time  I  met  Sally  Parks 
or  any  one  else  who  wanted  to  talk  about  what 
a  bad  fix  the  church  was  in. 

The  thing  I  suspected  gave  me  even  more 
trouble.  Since  the  night  I  had  seen  Lily  Triggs 
talking  with  that  heathen  Brother  Wade  keeps 
for  a  servant  I  could  not  rest.  I  became  an  in 
voluntary  spy  upon  the  parsonage.  I'd  slip  across 
my  parlour  to  the  window  and  part  the  curtains 
slyly  to  see  if  anything  was  going  on  over  there 
that  should  not  go  on.  This  was  wrong  and  gave 
me  a  sense  of  guilt.  But  the  unknown  past  of 
Felix  Wade  seemed  to  be  licking  out  its  tongue 
at  me  with  deadly  fascination. 

It  is  not  so  easy  for  a  man  to  live  above  sus 
picion,  no  matter  how  well  he  lives.  Being  a  man 
at  all  is  in  itself  a  very  suspicious  circumstance. 
The  reputation  of  the  sex  is  not  good.  There  is 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  299 

a  mean  but  generally  accepted  theory  that,  even 
if  he  is  innocent,  he  is  in  imminent  danger  of  one 
or  two  temptations.  He  has  never  risen  above 
having  his  virtue  conjugated  in  the  subjunctive 
mood.  He  may,  can,  or  must  be  good.  He  might, 
could,  would,  or  should  be  good.  Or,  saddest  of 
all,  he  might,  could,  would,  or  should  have  been 
good!  It  all  depends  upon  whether  accident  or 
association  casts  him  upon  the  shifting  sands  of 
the  wrong  woman's  smile. 

I  do  not  hold  these  views  myself,  but  the  strictly 
feminine  serpent  in  me  does.  Brother  Wade 
preached  an  austere  Gospel  and  he  lived  a  con 
secrated  life.  My  suspicion  was  that,  to  be  so 
good,  he  must  have  been  very  bad.  He  was  like 
one  who  takes  a  desperate  remedy  for  a  desperate 
trouble.  I  doubt  that  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi 
would  have  gone  the  lengths  he  did  in  piety  and 
renunciation  if  he  had  not  gone  first  all  the  gaits  in 
the  other  direction.  I  am  well  acquainted  with 
the  ordinary  good  man,  who  has  never  had  any 
vices  and  who  is  as  confirmed  in  his  virtues  as 
any  one  could  be  in  the  tobacco  habit. 

We  have  had  more  than  one  pastor  here  with 
only  a  second-hand  knowledge  of  the  wicked  world. 
Every  one  of  them  lambasted  us  with  an  occa 
sional  cat-o' -nine-tails  sermon  on  dancing  and 
other  worldly  amusements  of  which  we  were 


300  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

awkwardly  innocent.  I  do  not  know  why  it  is, 
but  if  a  preacher  has  never  seen  the  inside  of  a 
ballroom  or  danced  with  a  woman  he  is  sure  to 
have  an  evil  imagination  about  those  things.  Not, 
you  understand,  that  there  is  any  question  about 
its  being  wrong  to  dance  or  to  enjoy  many  other 
diversions  which  I  have  often  sinfully  craved,  but 
there  is  an  awful  possibility  that  this  kind  of 
preaching  actually  nourishes  our  instincts  for 
these  sins  which  we  cannot  afford. 

Brother  Wade  was  different.  He  never  referred 
to  the  iniquities  of  the  world.  He  showed  none  of 
the  spiritual  fox  fire  so  often  employed  by  the  emo 
tional  evangelist  when  he  entertains  the  congrega 
tion  with  lurid  descriptions  of  the  "life  he  once 
led."  If  only  he  had  confided  something  of  his  past 
life  the  church  would  have  been  drawn  closer  to 
him;  but  he  was  the  most  reserved,  self-effacing 
preacher  I  ever  knew.  He  asked  neither  sympathy 
nor  help  for  himself.  He  was  for  binding  us  all, 
hand  and  foot,  to  the  cross  of  Christ. 

September  is  usually  the  best  month  of  the  year 
in  this  church;  for  by  this  time  we  have  usually 
paid  most  of  the  assessments,  passed  through  a  re 
vival,  and  been  furbished  up  spiritually.  But  this 
year  we  were  able  to  make  no  such  terms  with  the 
Almighty.  We  had  the  feeling  that  our  salvation 
rent  had  not  been  paid,  and  that  we  should  like  to 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  301 

forgive  each  other  the  usual  trespasses,  as  we  al 
ways  do,  stirred  by  a  revival.  But  we  did  not 
know  how  to  go  about  it  on  a  "cold  collar."  One's 
spirit  must  be  sweetly  holden  by  some  divine  il 
lusion  before  he  can  walk  up  to  a  man  he  knows  has 
wronged  him  and  say:  "Forgive  me,  brother;  the 
fault  was  all  mine."  And  this  is  the  accepted  way. 
If  you  tell  the  truth  and  say,  "I  forgive  you,  my 
brother,  though  you  were  entirely  in  the  wrong," 
you  have  only  clinched  his  hard  feelings  against 
you  with  another  year's  grip.  You  must  admit 
that  you  were  the  offender,  especially  if  you  were 
not,  but  the  victim  of  his  injustice. 

I  reckon  I  have  made  friends  with  Charlotte 
Warren  a  dozen  times  this  way  by  telling  a  lie  just 
for  conscience's  sake — which  is  a  thing  I  cannot  do 
unless  I've  been  in  the  wine  press  of  a  revival  and 
had  my  spirit  badly  bruised  by  the  Word.  But  if 
I  do  admit  that  the  fault  is  my  fault  she  is  very 
gracious  about  it,  and  says  it's  all  right;  and  that 
Christians  must  forgive  one  another  as  they  hope 
to  be  forgiven.  And  won't  I  come  round  to  tea  at 
her  house  on  Wednesday  night,  just  to  show  the 
Woman's  Missionary  Society,  which  is  always  the 
bloody  sands  where  we  have  our  difficulties,  that 
we  are  once  more  in  love  and  charity  with  one  an 
other?  These  peace-offering  teas  of  Charlotte's 
are  the  bitterest  pills  I've  ever  had  to  swallow  as  a 


302  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

Christian  woman.  And  I  always  take  them  dur 
ing  revivals,  when  I'm  unnaturally  strong  in  the 
faith. 

But  Charlotte  had  not  spoken  to  me  for  three 
months  now,  owing  to  a  circumstance  I  shall  relate 
presently.  And  we  were  getting  farther  apart 
every  day,  owing  to  the  lack  of  the  usual  religious 
stimulation. 

Sometimes  I  was  indignant  with  our  pastor;  then 
I'd  see  the  situation  with  a  kind  of  malevolent  wit. 
The  church  was  filled  every  Sunday  with  Metho 
dist  orphans,  listening  like  strangely  chastened 
children  to  Brother  Wade  preaching  the  Gospel  of 
laying  down  our  lives  here  and  now  for  Christ, 
hoping  hungrily  that  he'd  relent  and  give  us  the 
chance  to  do  the  usual  superficial  things  in  the 
name  of  the  Lord. 

I  cannot  remember  a  time  when  the  members  of 
this  church  did  not  groan  and  complain  at  the 
amount  we  are  assessed  for  Conference  collections. 
The  stewards  give  the  pastor  to  understand  that 
he'll  do  well  if  he  gets  50  per  cent;  then  the 
struggle  begins  to  raise  them.  It  is  like  shoving  a 
heavily  loaded  team  up  a  long  hill — the  preacher 
shouting  encouragement  or  threatening  us  with  a 
loss  of  reputation  in  the  Conference.  A  few  old 
saints  behind  push  for  dear  life. 

Tom  Warren  has  a  way  of  sucking  his  teeth  with 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  303 

a  sort  of  sibilant  wrath  at  such  times.  We  can  al 
ways  hear  him  clicking  and  clucking  in  the  amen 
corner,  because  he  is  our  one  rich  man  and  our 
chief  stingy  man,  and  he  knows  everybody  is  wait 
ing  to  see  what  he  subscribes.  Well,  it  was  funny 
now  to  watch  him  begin  to  stir  angrily  in  his  seat 
and  suck  through  his  teeth  as  if  he  were  spitting  fire 
at  Brother  Wade,  who  would  not  ask  him  for  his 
money. 

The  Baptists  held  their  "protracted  meeting," 
and  the  Presbyterians  had  a  series  of  dignified 
devotional  services.  The  Primitive  Baptists  at 
the  bottom  of  the  hill  had  their  "foot- washing," 
and  still  the  Methodists  remained  dead  in  their 
trespasses  and  sins.  We  could  not  measure  up  to 
Brother  Wade's  Gospel,  but  we  wanted  to  be  re 
vived.  We  longed  to  sing — 

Just  a«s  I  am,  without  one  plea, 


0  Lamb  of  God,  we  come  to  Thee — 

and  come  to  the  altar  as  usual  during  the  singing 
of  the  last  stanza — and  let  it  go  at  that,  with  all  our 
sins  and  backsli dings.  But  our  pastor  went  on 
stoning  us  with  the  Gospel  of  service  and  sacrifice. 
He  even  cut  out  the  experience  meeting  we  some 
times  had  on  Wednesday  night  when  the  brethren 
and  sisters  told  what  was  the  matter  with  them  and 
asked  the  prayers  of  all  Christian  people. 


304  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

The  tragic  figure  in  every  church  is  some  man 
who  believes  he  has  committed  the  unpardonable 
sin  and  that  the  Lord  has  forsaken  him.  This  is 
always  a  man.  I  never  knew  or  heard  of  a  woman 
who  thought  she  could  do  so  enormously  wrong. 

David  Rivers  was  the  apostate  in  our  church. 
He  lived  alone  in  a  sawmill  shack  in  the  woods 
above  the  town.  He  was  of  great  stature — roughly 
made,  as  if  he  had  got  himself  together  out  of 
the  deeper  earth.  His  beard  was  black.  The 
hair  came  low  upon  his  forehead,  like  a  coarse 
black  fringe.  His  eyes  were  dark  and  expression 
less.  No  one  knew  from  whence  he  came  or  any 
thing  of  his  history.  He  was  merely  the  sorrowful 
shade  of  a  man  who  had  drifted  in  with  a  sawmill. 
His  business  was  the  snaking  of  logs  down  the  hill 
sides  to  this  mill. 

He  never  came  to  Berton  except  to  purchase  sup 
plies.  On  these  rare  occasions  he  attended  to  his 
business  and  hurried  away,  looking  no  man  in  the 
face,  never  speaking  if  it  was  possible  to  avoid 
speech. 

But  when  there  was  a  revival  in  our  church  he 
came  regularly  to  the  night  services,  sitting  far 
back,  like  a  damned  soul,  in  the  darkest  corner  of 
the  house.  He  was  always  the  first  to  respond 
when  penitents  were  invited  to  seek  forgiveness  for 
their  sins,  stumbling  like  a  somnambulist  down  the 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  305 

aisle  to  the  altar.  We  prayed  and  wrestled  with 
him  in  vain.  He  never  received  the  blessing.  Each 
year  he  returned  to  us  at  this  season,  always  hurry 
ing  to  the  altar,  never  praying  for  himself,  never 
confiding  his  troubles;  merely  kneeling  there  and 
staring  straight  before  him  like  one  who  beholds  a 
horrid  vision. 

Now  as  the  summer  waned,  with  no  prospect  of  a 
revival  in  our  church,  David  began  to  appear  every 
day  with  the  shades  of  evening  in  Berton,  still  si 
lent,  but  with  the  animation  of  a  strange  terror  in 
his  haggard  face.  He  would  come  striding  down 
the  street  and  halt  in  front  of  the  church,  stare  at 
the  darkened  windows,  then  hurry  away. 

One  evening  late  in  September  Brother  Wade 
was  sitting  on  my  porch  when  David's  great  strad 
dling  figure  loomed  in  the  moonlight  on  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  street.  He  stood  regarding  the 
dark  and  silent  church.  Once  he  raised  his  hands 
above  his  head  in  a  gesture  of  frenzied  despair.  At 
last  he  turned  and  walked  swiftly  toward  the  par 
sonage,  mounted  the  steps,  and  struck  heavily 
upon  the  door. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  asked  Brother  Wade. 

"David  Rivers,"  I  answered. 

"He  should  have  been  called  Saul,"  he  said,  ris 
ing  to  answer  the  summons  rapped  so  imperiously. 

"He  has  been  seeking  religion  for  years.     They 


306  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

say  he  is  an  apostate,"  I  explained,  speaking  very 
low,  for  the  man  had  caught  sight  of  us  and  was 
now  crossing  the  street. 

"Come  in,  David,"  I  said  when  he  reached  the 
steps. 

"Is  this  the  pastor  of  the  Methodist  Church?" 
he  asked,  fixing  his  sombre  eyes  upon  Brother 
Wade. 

"Yes,"  Brother  Wade  answered,  advancing 
and  offering  his  hand.  "What  can  I  do  for 

you?" 

David  stood,  with  his  long  arms  hanging,  his  face 
lifted. 

"When's  the  revival  going-  to  start  over  there?" 
he  demanded,  with  a  motion  of  his  head  toward  the 
church. 

"I  don't  know.     Why?"  asked  Brother  Wade. 

"It  must  begin!  I  can't  stand  it  no  longer.  I 
want  another  chance!"  he  cried,  again  lifting  his 
arms  in  that  gesture  of  despair. 

Brother  Wade  went  swiftly  down  the  steps  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  man's  shoulder. 

" I've  sinned !  Do  you  understand  that?  "  David 
groaned. 

"Yes,"  answered  Brother  Wade  gently. 

"I've  sinned  the  unpardonable  sin,"  he  whis 
pered  hoarsely.  "All  the  year  I  am  by  myself 
with  it,  up  there  in  the  woods." 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  307 

He  paused,  looked  about  him  as  if  the  thing  he 
had  done  was  visible.  Then  he  went  on: 

"  I'll  never  be  forgiven.  But  when  the  meeting's 
going  on  over  there  in  the  church,  and  all  the 
Christian  people  are  praying  for  me,  it  ain't  so 
terrible.  That's  the  only  rest  I  get." 

"There  is  but  one  sin,"  said  Brother  Wade — 
"the  sin  against  love." 

"Yes;  that's  it.  How'd  you  know?"  gasped  the 
man. 

"There  is  but  one  forgiveness,"  Brother  Wade 
went  on  in  tones  of  authority. 

"Not  for  me!"  interrupted  David. 

"That  is,  to  love;  to  give  your  life  hi  love,"  the 
preacher  continued,  holding  the  eyes  of  the  apos 
tate  with  a  stronger  gaze. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  David  moaned. 
"And  I  can't  pray." 

"To  love  is  to  pray,"  answered  the  other. 

"But  not  to  be  forgiven!  You  don't  know  what 
I've  done!"  he  cried. 

"That  makes  no  difference.  To  love  is  to  be 
forgiven." 

"But  I  can't  love.  Don't  you  understand? 
I'm  damned!  I  can't  even  hate;  I'm  dead!" 

"To  serve  is  to  live!"  came  the  reply. 

It  was  as  if  I  beheld  two  spirits  wrestling  upon 
my  doorstep,  which  is  a  fearsome  sight,  when  one 


308  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

of  them  thinks  he  is  damned  and  the  other  thinks 
salvation  is  a  life  sentence  to  service  and  sacrifice. 

I  slipped  quietly  into  the  house,  feeling  that 
this  was  no  place  for  an  old  woman  who  takes  her 
religion  according  to  the  emergencies  of  the  mo 
ment,  and  maybe  trusts  the  Lord  more  than  her 
daily  deeds  warrant. 

More  than  an  hour  elapsed  before  they  finally 
concluded  that  strange  argument,  and  I  heard  the 
two  men  going  off  together. 

My  knowledge  of  worldly  churches  in  cities  is 
limited;  but  in  the  villages  and  country,  where 
there  are  wide  silences,  and  much  home  life  of  the 
heaven  and  the  earth  upon  the  hills  to  encompass 
the  brooding  spirit  of  men,  these  apostates  are 
familiar  figures.  They  usually  discover  them 
selves  during  protracted  meetings,  and  they  rarely 
recover  from  the  horror  of  the  conviction  that 
they  have  committed  the  unpardonable  sin, 
though  it  often  transpires  that  such  a  man  cannot 
tell  himself  exactly  what  he  has  done. 

Once,  many  years  ago,  a  famous  minister  of  the 
Methodist  Church  in  this  state  was  preaching 
a  sermon  on  apostasy.  Suddenly  a  man,  just  an 
ordinary  farmer,  rose  and  left  the  house.  That 
night  his  body  was  found  within  fifty  yards  of 
the  church  door.  He  had  slain  himself  while 
the  altar  was  filled  with  penitents,  drawn  there 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  309 

by  the  terror  they  had  of  the  fate  with  which  they 
were  threatened. 

It  is  all  very  well  to  say  that  a  suicide  is  men 
tally  defective,  but  the  human  soul  is  a  very  deli 
cate  instrument.  It  never  swings  so  far  wrong  in 
a  bad  man  as  many  suspect  nor  so  far  right  in  a 
good  one  as  we  are  inclined  to  believe;  but  let  it 
once  balance  too  far  either  way  and  the  perfectly 
normal  man  becomes  a  defective.  He  can  be  a 
dipsomaniac  spiritually  as  surely  as  any  other 
drunkard  may  be  the  victim  of  delirium. 

Maybe  it  is  blasphemous  to  say  such  a  thing, 
but  my  belief  is  that  we  should  pray  the  Lord  to 
save  us  from  extreme  worldliness  and  from  ex 
treme  piety,  and  especially  from  the  extreme  dark 
ness  of  our  own  rational  minds. 

A  few  days  later  I  met  Taggy  Lipton  coming  out 
of  Sam  Parks'  grocery  store. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?"  she  asked  as  we 
walked  down  the  street  together.  "David  Rivers 
has  professed  religion!" 

"Well,  that's  a  mercy,"  I  answered,  feeling 
more  curiosity  than  I  was  willing  to  show. 

"He's  sold  his  oxen,  quit  the  sawmill,  and  taken 
the  position  of  orderly  in  that  hospital  Brother 
Wade  is  running  for  the  factory  people  with  the 
fever,"  she  explained. 


310  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"But  how'd  he  get  religion?"  I  asked. 

"That's  how — he  sold  all  he  had,  gave  it  to  the 
hospital,  and  then  went  to  work  there.  John 
Henry  says  you  wouldn't  know  David,  he's  so 
up  in  his  spirit;  ready  to  laugh  and  talk  like  any 
body  else." 

"Brother  Wade  had  better  mind  what  he's 
doing!"  I  could  not  refrain  from  saying. 

"Why,  I  thought  you'd  be  glad  we  got  at  least 
one  convert!"  she  exclaimed. 

"He's  put  David  up  to  sacrificing  the  only  means 
he  has  of  a  livelihood.  What  will  the  man  do? 
That  hospital  is  only  a  temporary  affair,"  I  ex 
plained. 

"Did  you  know  that  Brother  Wade  sold  his 
car?"  she  asked. 

"I  suspected  as  much,"  I  answered,  for  we  had 
not  seen  his  fine  big  car  since  he  roared  out  of 
town  with  it  one  morning  on  one  of  those  mys 
terious  trips  he  took  shortly  after  the  fever  epi 
demic  started  at  the  factory. 

"John  Henry  says  it's  just  as  well  he  did  get 
rid  of  it,  for  the  church  is  not  paying  enough 
quarterage  to  keep  him  in  gasoline.  Everybody 
seems  to  think  he  has  means  of  his  own,"  she  con 
cluded. 

"Which  is  a  poor  reason  for  cheating  him  out  of 
his  salary  as  pastor,"  I  retorted. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  311 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Brother  Wade's 
bulldog  began  to  come  to  my  door  every  morning 
and  look  up  at  me  more  agreeably  than  usual,  as 
if  he'd  adopted  me  as  a  friend  of  the  family  and 
was  by  the  same  token  entitled  to  the  scraps  from 
the  table.  I  thought  nothing  of  this  circum 
stance,  because  Lum  was  in  and  out  of  my  kitchen 
every  day,  pretending  to  learn  my  ways  of  cook 
ing.  The  dog  always  accompanied  him.  I  was 
loath  to  feed  him;  but  he  was  very  thin  and  I 
thought  the  heathen  was  neglecting  him,  so  he 
shared  the  scraps  with  the  cat.  Then  I'd  take 
the  broom  to  him  and  drive  him  home,  for  fear 
Brother  Wade  would  think  I  was  bribing  his  ugly 
beast  to  stay  at  my  house. 

One  afternoon  I  went  to  see  Sally  Parks  about 
the  missionary  program  for  our  society.  When  I 
came  home,  about  six  o'clock,  that  dog  was  sitting 
out  in  the  yard  looking  very  queer  and  unsettled 
in  his  mind. 

"Begone!"  I  cried,  stamping  my  foot  at  him. 

But,  instead  of  going,  he  shot  round  the  corner 
of  the  house  as  if  he  had  urgent  business  in  the 
backyard.  I  hurried  in  to  get  the  broom,  which 
is  the  only  weapon  I  ever  keep. 

At  this  moment  I  heard  a  door  closing  softly 
with  a  creak.  It  was  the  pantry  door,  because 
that  is  the  only  one  in  the  house  which  makes  a 


312  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

noise.  I  stood  for  an  instant  transfixed  with 
horror. 

The  woman  never  lived  who  did  not  expect  to 
find  a  robber  hi  the  house.  I  can  no  more  get 
into  my  bed  at  night  without  looking  under  it 
than  I  can  sleep  without  saying  my  prayers.  I 
reckon  this  is  the  cave  woman's  instinct — not  for 
burglars,  but  just  the  elemental  fear  of  a  strange 
man;  for  I  never  look  anywhere  else  for  him.  Wo 
men  never  do.  But  now,  after  all  these  years  of 
expecting  to  find  him,  he  literally  was  there — not 
under  my  poor  old  innocent  bed,  but  in  my  pantry, 
of  course. 

The  floor  vibrated  beneath  the  quick  slippered 
tread  of  feet  across  the  kitchen  floor.  No  power 
on  earth  could  have  drawn  me  one  step  forward  to 
defend  my  things.  If  I'd  had  the  strength  to 
move  I  should  have  fled  back  out  of  the  front 
door  and  left  him  in  undisputed  possession. 

At  this  moment  I  saw  Lum  glide  through  the 
back  door,  bent  double,  with  his  apron  covering 
something.  Indignation  gave  me  a  swiftness  that 
I  have  not  had  for  many  a  year.  I  rushed  out  in 
time  to  see  him  dart  back  toward  the  kitchen. 

He  was  flying  through  the  hall  when  I  met  him 
face  to  face,  with  the  broom  lifted  high  over  my 
head. 

He  made  some  kind  of  a  mewing  heathen  sound 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  313 

as  he  rushed  past,  merely  turning  me  sidewise  to 
make  room  for  his  own  greatly  exaggerated  person, 
for  my  hall  is  narrow  and  I  am  two-thirds  the 
width  of  it. 

I  can  only  hope  no  one  saw  me  chasing  that 
heathen  across  the  street  to  the  parsonage.  The 
transit  was  made  in  silence,  for  I  had  no  wind  to 
spare  in  futile  maledictions;  but  when  he  turned 
at  bay  in  his  own  kitchen  I  still  had  the  broom 
and  the  will  to  use  it. 

I  snatched  his  apron  aside  and  disclosed  the 
parsonage  bread  tray  filled  with  an  assortment  of 
my  household  supplies — a  pile  of  flour  in  one  end, 
with  a  lump  of  lard  as  large  as  a  cocoanut  embedded 
in  it;  a  pound  of  butter;  a  can  filled  with  coffee; 
and  the  only  jar  of  raspberry  marmalade  I  had 
left  from  our  last  Quarterly  Conference.  Wedged 
in  between  the  butter  and  the  coffee  can,  I  could 
see  the  wrapper  on  a  cake  of  bath  soap. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  I  cried. 

"Eats,"  he  explained  simply,  regarding  me  with 
a  graven-image  expression. 

I  was  too  much  astonished  by  his  mild  shame- 
lessness  to  speak. 

"Take  a  little  every  day,"  he  explained  after  a 
pause. 

"So  you've  been  doing  this  before!"  I  exclaimed. 

He  nodded  his  head.    Then  he  set  the  tray  down, 


314  A  Circuit  Rider9 s  Widow 

moved  across  the  room  with  that  slick  tread  he 
has,  flung  the  pantry  door  open,  and  beckoned 
me  to  enter.  I  did,  with  a  certain  feeling  of 
proprietorship,  for  I  had  helped  many  a  time  to 
stock  this  pantry.  Every  shelf  was  empty. 
There  was  not  a  dust  of  flour  in  the  bin;  not  a 
scrap  of  meat.  An  old  cracked-rice  jar  lay  yawn 
ing  sidewise  in  one  corner. 

"What— what's  the  matter  here?"  I  cried. 

He  merely  grunted  a  curious  half  sound  and 
spread  his  palms  downward,  with  a  listless  gesture. 

"How  long  has  it  been  like  that?"  I  demanded, 
drawing  back  from  that  accusing  pantry. 

"One — mebbe  two  mont's.  No  mon.  Velly 
bad!" 

"Who  else  have  you  been  stealing  from?"  I 
asked  with  widening  suspicion. 

He  made  a  gesture  with  both  hands,  spreading 
them  like  thin  yellow  claws  in  a  manner  that 
indicated  the  whole  town. 

"From  everybody?"  I  gasped. 

"  No,  no !  Not  the  Baps.  From  the  Methodys. 
Owe  my  master.  No  pay.  Takee  leetle  here, 
leetle  there.  Do  velly  well,"  he  explained  coolly. 

There  is  an  element  of  the  virago  in  every  up- 
and-doing  woman,  which  never  is  converted  to 
meekness  or  patience.  When  things  go  too  far 
wrong  in  my  house,  especially  in  the  kitchen,  I 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  315 

always  kick  the  cat,  lifting  him  humanely  upon 
the  top  of  my  foot  and  flinging  him  furiously 
across  the  room.  It  does  not  hurt  him  and  it 
relieves  the  snarled  bobbin  of  my  nerves  as  "strong 
language"  relieves  a  man. 

As  I  stood  staring  at  that  heathen,  flattened 
against  the  pantry  door  like  a  yellow  shadow,  I 
felt  the  cat-kicking  feeling  coming  on.  But  he 
was  shaped  so  little  like  a  cat  that  I  was  obliged 
to  seize  him  by  the  collar  instead. 

"Never  do  such  a  thing  again,  you  heathen 
rogue!"  I  exclaimed,  shaking  him  violently. 

"No  can  starve,"  he  insisted  imperturbably  the 
moment  I  released  him. 

"What  will  your  master  say?"  I  threatened. 

"Know  nothing;  say  nothing,"  he  answered 
shrewdly. 

Well,  here  was  a  situation — our  pastor  keeping 
soul  and  body  together  upon  rations  stolen  by  a 
heathen,  while  the  church  owed  him  several 
hundred  dollars  in  salary.  We  have  had  preachers 
here  who  were  not  above  asking  for  things,  even 
when  they  received  all  that  was  promised  on 
quarterage.  Now  we  had  one  who  would  not  even 
ask  for  what  was  due  him. 

I  was  in  no  condition  financially  to  provide  for 
another  family,  but  there  was  nothing  else  to  do 
until  something  could  be  done.  I  ordered  Lum  to 


316  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

follow  and  went  back  to  add  a  few  things  that  his 
depredations  had  not  included. 

While  we  filled  the  basket,  Lum,  animated  by 
the  prospect  of  proper  food,  was  moved  to  con 
fidences. 

"My  master  velly  lich  before  we  come  here. 
Spend  the  money  fast;  have  big  time.  Then 
much  trouble — dam'  lady;  dam'  wine;  dam'  those 
politics — everything.  Give  all  he  have  to  his  God. 
Velly  expensive  being  a  Clishtian,"  he  squeaked. 

"Where'd  he  live  then?"  I  could  not  resist  ask 
ing. 

He  retreated;  he  effaced  himself.  He  became 
the  graven  image  of  stupidity. 

"In  New  York?" 

Still  no  reply. 

"Where  he  knew  Lily  Triggs?" 

I  had  stuck  a  knife  in  him;  he  would  die  without 
flinching,  but  speak — never!  So  his  face  told 
me. 

"What  did  she  want  the  night  she  talked  to  you 
at  the  back  door?"  I  demanded  suddenly. 

"Velly  dam'  lady  that;  no  speakee  to  her,"  he  re 
turned  after  considering  the  question. 

"Yes,  you  did.     I  saw  you  both,"  I  said  sternly. 

"No!"  he  lied,  laying  hold  of  the  basket  in  a 
great  hurry  to  be  gone. 

I  went  out  on  the  porch  and  sat  down  to  con- 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  317 

sider  what  should  be  done.  We  have  always  had 
donation  parties  for  our  pastors  when  we  had 
reason  to  believe  their  domestic  ends  were  not 
meeting.  As  many  of  us  as  could  get  together 
would  descend  upon  the  parsonage  some  evening. 
A  dray  would  follow,  loaded  with  groceries.  The 
women  brought  cakes,  jellies;  even  a  bedquilt  some 
times  if  it  was  a  very  cold  winter. 

But  it  was  not  so  easy  to  get  donations  for  a 
preacher  who  had  alienated  many  prominent  mem 
bers  of  the  church  and  who  appeared  to  be  ignorant 
of  this  fact.  More  than  that,  he  was  now  sus 
pected  of  being  a  rich  crank.  How  should  I  go 
about  telling  the  people  he  was  living  on  their  in 
voluntary  charity?  I  recalled  a  circumstance  in 
this  connection  that  was  funny  besides  being 
scandalous  in  the  light  of  Lum's  confession. 

Charlotte  Warren  had  some  very  fine  fowls — 
three  hens  and  a  rooster — which  were  her  pride,  be 
cause  they  laid  so  many  eggs.  She  was  now  mys 
tified  about  these  hens.  They  had  not  produced 
an  egg  in  weeks.  She  told  Taggy  that  she  had 
spent  hah5  they  were  worth  buying  eggmaking  food 
for  them.  She  said  she  knew  they  wanted  to  lay 
because  they  cackled 'as  if  they  did. 

"And  would  you  believe  it,  Sister  Lip  ton,"  she 
concluded  finally,  "one  of  those  hens  went  to  set 
ting  without  ever  laying  an  egg!  The  poor  thing 


318  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

thought  she  had,  you  know,  on  account  of  that 
high-powered  food  I'd  been  giving  her." 

Taggy,  who  told  me  of  this,  said  she  thought  it 
must  be  a  thief,  because  she  had  missed  five  pullets 
from  her  spring  hatchings.  She  almost  knew  we 
had  a  professional  rogue  in  Berton,  because  so 
many  people  were  complaining.  Milk  delivered 
at  certain  houses  was  taken,  the  thief  alternating 
from  one  to  the  other.  The  Peterses  lost  their 
cantaloupes,  and  Sam  Parks  sat  up  one  whole  night 
trying  to  catch  the  person  who  was  taking  vege 
tables  from  his  garden. 

"He's  no  ordinary  rogue,"  Sally  complained, 
"for  he  actually  stole  the  only  bloom  I  had  on  my 
Martha  Washington  bush  last  night." 

When  I  passed  through  the  parsonage  that  after 
noon  I  saw  this  rose  languishing  in  a  vase  in  the 
dining-room  table! 

Brother  Wade  was  the  only  literal  believer  I  had 
ever  known  in  the  Lord's  promise  to  feed  the 
young  ravens — and  he  was  living  by  the  depreda 
tions  of  that  heathen  on  his  neighbours ! 

If  the  Scriptures  I  do  not  understand  will  leave 
me  alone  I  will  not  push  them  too  close  with  ex 
periments.  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  "Take  no  thought,  saying,  WTiat  shall 
we  eat?  ...  or,  Wherewithal  shall  we  be 
clothed? "  My  belief  is  that  the  Lord  always  used 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  319 

highly  poetic  language  and  that  He  only  meant 
that  we  should  not  give  too  much  ambition  merely 
to  the  getting  of  substance;  for  I  have  observed 
that  they  who  make  no  provision  for  the  future 
either  steal  or  starve,  or  live  on  the  charity  of  those 
who  have  been  very  thoughtful  of  the  future. 

What  I  am  trying  to  say  is  this:  There  is  no 
place  in  the  world,  as  it  is  now  organized,  for  the 
austere  renunciations  that  Brother  Wade  preached 
and  practised,  to  the  despair  of  all  Christian 
people.  Growth  in  grace  consists  chiefly  in  keep 
ing  up  the  struggle  that  no  man  wins. 

I  had  about  made  up  my  mind  to  call  up  Sally 
Parks  over  the  'phone  and  tell  her  I'd  been  over  to 
the  parsonage  that  day  and  found  the  pantry 
empty,  when  I  saw  Brother  Wade  entering  the 
gate. 

He  came  up,  saluted  me  in  his  pleasantly  ex 
aggerated  manner,  dropped  into  the  chair  beside 
me,  and  leaned  back.  He  looked  very  tired,  calm, 
and  blessed,  as  a  man  does  when  he's  giving  all  his 
goods  to  feed  the  poor,  and  his  body  to  be  burned — 
and  has  charity  besides. 

We  exchanged  some  remarks  about  the  weather. 
He  thought  there  was  already  the  edge  of  autumn 
in  those  September  days. 

"The  yellow  butterflies  have  not  come  yet,  so  we 
can't  tell  when  we  shall  have  frost,"  I  said. 


320  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"What  have  butterflies  to  do  with  frost?  I 
thought  they  were  the  air  blossoms  of  summer 
days,"  he  commented  idly. 

"When  you  see  tiny  yellow  butterflies  rising  and 
wheeling  low  above  the  grass  in  the  meadows,  it  is 
a  sign  that  we  shall  have  enough  frost  in  ten  days 
to  turn  the  leaves  the  same  colour,"  I  explained. 

He  said  he  hoped  they'd  come  soon.  I  knew  he 
was  thinking  of  the  sick  people  at  the  factory  who 
needed  the  bracing  cold  weather.  I  wanted  to  ask 
him  how  he  got  the  money  to  keep  up  that  im 
provised  hospital,  pay  the  doctor  and  two  nurses. 
I  knew  that  I  should  break  over  presently  and  ask 
him  one  of  half  a  dozen  questions  that  were  gather 
ing  a  kind  of  speaking  force  in  my  mind. 

"Dear  lady,"  he  said  after  a  thoughtful  pause, 
"do  you  happen  to  have  any  gruel  in  the  house?" 

"Gruel?"  I  exclaimed,  staring  at  him  over  my 
spectacles.  "Why  should  I  have  gruel?  I'm  never 
ill." 

"That's  true,"  smiling  frankly.  "You  are  so 
marvellously  well  in  the  spirit  and  humanly  hardy 
in  the  flesh  that  I  could  never  think  of  you  in  a 
sublimated  body  with  wings!" 

"The  Lord  must  make  them  extra  strong,  at  any 
rate,"  I  replied,  laughing. 

He  slipped  lower  in  his  chair,  stretched  his  long 
legs,  crossed  his  dusty  shoes,  and  gazed  with  that 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  321 

narrowing  smile  at  his  own  thoughts,  which  was  a 
habit  he  had,  very  provoking  to  me  now,  when  I 
wanted  to  know  more  about  the  gruel  business. 

"Ever  think  of  this,"  he  went  on,  without  look 
ing  up,  "that  all  the  angels  and  saints  mentioned  in 
the  Scriptures  are  referred  to  as  he's?" 

"That's  because  the  Scriptures  were  all  written 
by  men — the  ballots  they  cast  in  advance  for  their 
own  immortality.  The  prejudices  of  your  sex  have 
laid  a  sort  of  spiritual  impropriety  upon  us  in  the 
next  world,"  I  retorted  sharply. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  laughed;  "women  may  be 
needed  so  much  forever  in  this  world  that  the  Lord 
can't  spare  you  just  to  sing  soprano  in  heaven. 
There  is  so  much  kindness  of  light  in  some  of  you; 
so  much  darkness  in  others  of  you.  You  are  like 
the  weather,  which  is  bright  to-day  and  cloudy  to 
morrow.  You,  for  example,  would  make  a  fine, 
large,  round  day  which  might  return,  like  Halley's 
Comet — only  oftener — for  thousands  of  years. 
You'd  come,  I  imagine,  somewhere  in  the  harvest 
season  of  summer  weather;  very  kind  and  golden, 
with  just  a  cold  snap  to  your  early  morning,  and  a 
wide  lavender  mist  spreading  over  your  evening, 
like  the  answer  to  all  the  prayers  you've  ever 
said,  changed  to  that  peace  and  silence  one  feels 
then." 

"Listen  to  me,  Brother  Wade!"  I  exclaimed 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

earnestly.  "Never  say  such  things  abroad  in  this 
town!" 

"I  won't.  I  was  speaking  in  strictest  confi 
dence,"  he  laughed.  "But  why  this  warning?" 

"Because  people  do  not  understand  poetic  forms 
of  speech  here.  They  don't  anywhere,  guided  by 
doctrines  and  creeds.  The  most  awful  experience 
I  ever  had  as  a  Christian  woman  came  from  telling 
Sally  Parks  that  I  remembered  playing  with  Eve's 
little  girls  as  a  child,  and  later  straying  off  with  the 
Cleopatra  Sisters  in  Egypt!" 

Then  I  had  to  tell  him  about  that.  During  the 
narrative  he  rumpled  his  cowlick  and  laughed  like  a 
boy. 

"Well,  I'll  be  careful  not  to  involve  you  in  an 
other  scandal,"  he  said  at  last.  "But,  really, 
women  do  remind  me  more  of  the  weather  than 
they  do  of  anything  else.  We  have  only  one  pa 
tient  left  now  in  our  hospital  at  the  factory;  and 
she's  just  a  poor  little  dusk  of  a  woman,  very  dim, 
as  if  she'd  fade  into  night  presently  without  a 
single  star.  It  is  for  her  I  wanted  the  gruel,"  he 
explained. 

"Can't  you  get  it  hot  out  there?"  I  asked,  not 
ungraciously,  merely  intimating  the  essential  char 
acter  of  gruel. 

"The  fact  is,  we've  about  come  to  the  end  of  our 
resources,"  he  said  soberly.  "The  nurses  left  last 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  323 

week.  The  doctor  is  gone.  And  we've  used  up 
everything.  This  girl  was  a  factory  hand — no 
kindred;  no  one  to  see  her  through;  only  an  old 
woman  we've  hired  to  take  care  of  her.  The 
people  who  have  not  drifted  away  are  desti 
tute." 

"Where'd  you  get  the  money  to  keep  up  that 
hospital,  anyhow?"  I  demanded  suddenly. 

He  looked  up  at  me  as  if  I'd  committed  a  breach 
of  etiquette.  But  I've  always  been  superior  to  my 
manners  when  the  emergency  demanded  some 
thing  stronger. 

"Not  from  the  people  in  Berton?"  I  persisted. 

"Many  of  them  have  sent  out  supplies,  you 
know,"  he  hedged. 

"Not  funds  to  pay  nurses  and  buy  medicines. 
You  have  spent  a  lot  of  money  out  there." 

He  was  silent. 

"Where  is  your  car?"  I  asked,  closing  in. 

"Sold  it,"  he  admitted,  but  as  if  that  was  none 
of  my  business. 

"So  that's  how  you  raised  the  money  to  take 
care  of  fifty  cases  of  typhoid  fever!"  I  accused. 
"You'd  better  have  spent  some  of  it  on  your  own 
living  expenses!" 

"I  do  very  well,  thanks  to  Lum,"  he  put  in 
quickly.  "He  thinks  he's  only  a  heathen.  He's 
really  one  of  the  best  Christians  I  know." 


324  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"He's  one  of  the  slickest "  I  caught  myself 

in  time  and  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"The  term  slick  applies  only  to  Lum's  feet " 

" — and    his    hands,"    I    added     significantly. 

"I  thought  you  liked  him,"  he  said  with  a  hint  of 
reproach. 

"I've  worked  for  the  salvation  of  the  heathen 
for  forty  years,  but  I  don't  trust  one  when  he  gets 
into  my  house;  or  even  when  he's  across  the  street 
in  yours!"  I  replied,  with  unchristian  candour. 

"He's  the  most  frugal  of  mortals,"  he  defended. 
"I  really  wonder  how  he  manages  to  provide  so  well 
on  what  I've  been  able  to  spare." 

"It's  a  mercy  you  don't  know  how  he  man 
ages!"  I  sniffed. 

"Well,  he  hasn't  cooked  the  cat  yet,"  he  laughed, 
missing  the  point.  "I  assure  you  that  he  is  a  de 
voted  and  faithful  creature." 

"Your  devoted  and  faithful  creature  was  seen 
one  night  not  long  ago  talking  to  Mrs.  Lily  Triggs 
at  the  back  door  of  the  parsonage,"  I  said,  and  was 
frightened  the  next  moment  at  the  black  change  in 
Felix  Wade's  face.  But  it  was  too  late  to  retreat; 
so  I  went  on: 

"Mrs.  Triggs  has  been  a  thorn  in  the  church  here 
for  four  years.  One  way  or  another  she  has  been 
the  cause  of  the  removal  of  four  pastors  in  suc 


cession." 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  325 

"I  have  never  spoken  to  her.  She  is  no  longer 
in  our  choir.  She  does  not  even  attend  services," 
he  said,  on  the  defensive  for  the  first  time  since  I 
had  known  him. 

"Which  makes  it  all  the  more  suspicious  that  she 
should  be  seen  after  dark  whispering  with  your  ser 
vant,"  I  replied. 

"Who  saw  them?"  he  asked. 

"I  did.  She  wanted  something.  I  heard  her 
tell  him  not  to  speak  so  loud." 

He  sat  with  his  head  bowed,  a  deep  frown  upon 
his  face. 

"Brother  Wade,"  I  began  again,  "no  matter 
how  innocent  he  is,  a  preacher  cannot  survive  a 
mystery.  It's  a  kind  of  shade  that  stands  between 
him  and  his  people.  They  feel  it,  and  they  resent 
it  when  they  would  not  resent  having  a  reformed 
criminal  for  their  pastor,  so  long  as  they  knew — 
actually  knew — all  about  him.  I  do  not  know  why 
this  is  so,  but  it  is.  The  members  of  this  church 
have  been  slinking  round  in  your  darkness  for  a 
year!" 

"And  you?  "  he  asked  in  a  tone  which  might  have 
been  that  of  a  dying  Caesar  to  his  friend  Brutus. 

"Oh,  I've  taken  you  along  with  the  other  part  of 
my  religion — by  faith;  but,  humanly  speaking,  I've 
been  uneasy  about  you.  Something's  going  to  hap 
pen  presently,"  I  said. 


326  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"It  has  already  happened,"  he  answered. 

"What?"  I  asked  in  alarm. 

"One  of  the  stewards  has  preferred  charges 
against  me  to  the  Presiding  Elder,"  he  said,  as  if  it 
did  not  matter  at  all. 

"What  kind  of  charges?"  I  asked,  knowing  that 
Tom  Warren  had  been  meddling. 

"Maladministration;  neglect  of  duty.  He  was 
entirely  justified  from  his  point  of  view,"  he  ad 
mitted  calmly. 

"But  you  have  been  a  good  pastor.  We've 
never  had  a  man  who  visited  the  people  more,  even 
during  this  awful  summer  when  you've  had  so  much 
to  do  at  the  factory,"  I  said,  changing  to  the  other 
side  and  defending  him. 

"I've  been  a  failure,  though,  as  the  financial 
agent  of  the  church.  I  have  not  raised  the  assess 
ments.  That  is  one  of  the  charges." 

"Why  don't  you  do  it?"  I  demanded. 

"I  made  a  mistake.  I  did  not  understand 
when  I  entered  the  ministry  of  this  church.  I 
should  never  have  taken  upon  me  the  duties  of  a 
financial  agent  under  the  disguise  of  the  ministry  of 
Christ  if  I  had  known  what  I  was  doing,"  he  said 
simply. 

"But  it  is  not  so!"  I  cried  indignantly.  "Hun 
dreds  of  men  and  women  have  been  converted  in 
this  church." 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  327 

"Converted  to  the  church;  sworn  to  support  its 
institutions — a  heavy  burden;  merely  to  practise 
personal  Christian  charity  with  what  little  they 
can  spare  after  the  church  is  paid.  I  took  the  same 
vows.  But,  not  realizing  how  these  people  have 
been  trained  to  perform  their  Christian  duties  of 
love  and  sacrifice  through  a  corporation,  I  have 
been  loath  to  deprive  them  of  the  privileges  they 
should  enjoy. 

"You  know  how  it  has  been.  They  cannot 
serve  God  personally — only  through  the  church. 
It's  like  hiring  a  certain  body  of  men  to  do  your 
peace-and-good-will  to  men,  according  to  the  per 
sonal  ambition,  judgment,  and  ability  of  those  men 
— religion  by  proxy.  There's  no  such  thing!" 

"But  we  must  have  some  kind  of  organization," 
I  insisted,  "some  methods  to  avoid  overlapping  in 
terests  in  Christian  work;  and,  worse  still,  the  sen 
timental  blindness  of  foolish  giving  and  foolish 


service." 


"Undoubtedly,  yes.  But  the  present  methods 
are  blindly  sentimental.  What  is  the  real  trouble 
now  with  this  church?  Indignant  because  they 
have  not  been  asked  to  pay  six  hundred  dollars  for 
Home  Missions — which  might  as  well  be  foreign; 
and  for  Foreign  Missions — when  several  hundred 
people  two  miles  distant  are  suffering  for  the 
necessities  of  life.  Fifty  children  out  there  have 


328  A  Circuit  Riders  Widow 

had  neither  school  nor  teacher  this  year.  The 
money  paid  by  the  women  in  the  four  churches  of 
Berton  for  Foreign  Missions  would  have  paid  a 
teacher  for  nine  months.  It's  all  wrong!  This 
church  should  have  given  fifty  dollars  to  Missions 
this  year,  and  a  thousand  dollars  at  least  to  the  re 
lief  of  the  destitute  at  the  factory — to  say  nothing 
of  what  it  owed  to  the  sufferers  in  the  war 


zone." 


I  thought  of  Doctor  Edd  and  the  thousand  dol 
lars  already  sent,  but  something  warned  me  not  to 
mention  this. 

"I  am  also  charged  with  neglect  of  my  spiritual 
duties  to  the  church.  We  have  had  no  revival. 
The  complaint  is  that  I  devoted  my  time  and  ser 
vices  to  another  community  at  the  season  usually 
set  aside  here  for  the  revival." 

"We  do  need  one,"  I  put  in;  "we've  never  oeen 
so  cold  as  a  church." 

"A  man  may  easily  deceive  himself  into  a  sense 
of  peace  with  God,  hypnotized  by  emotional  con 
ditions;  but  it  is  not  the  right  peace!"  he  exclaimed 
passionately.  "You  pay  for  that  with  all  you  are 
and  have  and  can  do!" 

I  sighed.  One  cannot  argue  with  a  fanatic.  He 
is  always  impossibly  right  and  practically  wrong. 

"This  steward  does  not  appear  to  have  heard  of 
Mrs.  Triggs'  evening  visit  to  the  parsonage,"  he 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  329 


said  presently.     "Otherwise  he  might  have 
another  charge." 

"You  know  I  would  never  have  mentioned 
that!"  I  cried,  offended. 

"No;  you  are  incapable  of  that.  You  would 
suffer  in  silence  any  doubt  of  your  pastor,  being 
made  beautifully  biased  in  his  defense.  Still  you 
have  suffered  !  "  He  looked  up,  gently  accusing. 

"I  have  never  questioned  any  preacher  we've 
had  here.  They  have  been  men  of  unimpeachable 
integrity.  But  Lily  Triggs  is  dangerous.  She's 
especially  fatal  one  way  or  the  other  to  preachers," 
I  insisted. 

"Well,  in  confidence,  I  will  tell  you  what  she 
wanted,"  he  said,  looking  at  me  with  a  half  smile. 

"You  knew  of  her  visit  then?"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  Lum  informed  me  when  I  came  back 
from  the  telegraph  station  that  night.  She 
wanted  a  package  of  her  letters  which  I  had." 

"You  have  had  letters  from  her?"  I  exclaimed, 
recalling  Lily's  methods. 

"  Not  written  to  me,"  he  corrected,  smiling  grimly. 

"Before  I  entered  the  ministry  I  was  an  attor 
ney  in  New  York.  Five  years  ago  I  defended  a 
divorce  suit  brought  by  his  wife  against  Oliver 
Triggs.  The  purpose  of  the  defense  was  to  avoid 
paying  alimony.  Part  of  the  evidence  introduced 
was  a  number  of  letters  written  by  Mrs.  Triggs  to  a 


330  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

certain  professor  who  gave  her  vocal  lessons,  if  I  re 
member  correctly. 

"We  lost  the  case,  owing  to  the  fact  that  these 
letters,  though  highly  sentimental  in  character, 
were  not  actually  incriminating.  The  amount 
Triggs  was  compelled  to  pay  her  ruined  him.  He 
is  a  clerk  in  a  lawyer's  office  now,  earning  barely 
enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  The 
woman  disappeared.  I  never  heard  of  her  again 
until  I  was  astonished  to  find  her  conducting  the 
music  in  your  church  when  I  came  here.  Naturally 
she  dropped  out,  and  naturally  I  did  not  expose  her. 
There  was  nothing  to  tell  which  could  not  have 
been  inferred  from  the  fact  that  she  was  divorced. 

"But  she  thinks  I  still  have  those  letters.  Lum 
tells  me  she  offered  him  a  hundred  dollars  for  them. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  are  on  file  in  New  York 
with  the  other  papers  in  the  case." 

He  rose  and  stood  for  a  moment  staring  at  that 
church  across  the  way. 

"One  cannot  escape  from  one  life  into  another 
life.  When  I  entered  the  church  I  did  so,  you 
may  say,  almost  secretly,  through  the  influence  of 
one  of  your  bishops.  I  severed  relations  with  my 
friends  and  everything  connected  with  the  world  in 
which  I  lived.  I  wished  to  be  literally  a  different 
man.  The  first  person  I  saw  when  I  entered  the 
church  over  there  was  Mrs.  Triggs,  who  knew  me — 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  331 

by  reputation  at  least — as  quite  a  different  kind  of 
man,  with  exactly  the  opposite  aims  and  views 
from  those  I  hold  now." 

"But  you  still  hold  them?"  I  asked  anxiously, 
feeling  that  things  had  gone  hard  with  him,  and 
the  end  not  yet  in  sight. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered  calmly.  "This  has 
been  a  very  profitable  year  for  me.  When  I 
came  here  the  spiritual  life  was  still  more  or  less 
of  an  adventure  in  which  I  had  invested — heavily. 
Now  it  is  a  reality.  One  gets  to  feel  very  snug  in 
his  soul,  a  small,  clean  place — just  wide  enough 
for  a  ladder,  with  his  own  angels  ascending  and 
descending;  no  roof  over  his  head;  nothing  in  his 
pockets;  no  fears  in  his  heart.  For  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  have  enjoyed  perfect  freedom — like 
a  man  started  upon  a  long  holiday,  with  no  burden 
upon  his  back  but  the  light  of  the  sun." 

It  was  as  good  a  description  as  I'd  ever  heard 
of  an  ordinary  tramp.  As  I  watched  him  swing 
ing  across  the  street,  evidently  in  no  way  cast 
down  by  the  charges  against  him,  I  wondered 
whether  this  was  not  the  literal  fate  that  would 
overtake  him.  The  history  of  strictly  religious 
pilgrims  has  always  been  a  dingy  tale  of  the  road, 
of  pitying  charity,  and  the  contempt  of  the  sane 
world.  It  was  no  work  of  Providence  that  he 
had  that  heathen  to  steal  his  daily  bread  for  him. 


332  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

Providence  is  an  honest  man,  and  if  this  kept  up 
the  stewards  would  have  charges  to  make  that  he 
could  not  face. 

I  went  back  into  the  kitchen  to  prepare  the 
broth,  which  I  had  persuaded  him  was  better  for 
the  invalid  at  the  factory  than  the  gruel. 

About  eight  o'clock  Molly  Brown  came  in. 
The  October  evenings  were  already  cool  and  we 
sat  down  before  the  fire,  Molly  telling  me  all  the 
time  that  she  didn't  have  a  minute  to  spare  and 
ought  not  to  have  come  in  at  all. 

"But  I  just  had  to  show  you  this,"  she  said, 
drawing  a  letter  from  her  pocket  and  offering  it 
to  me.  "It's  from  Doctor  Edd;  the  first  news 
we've  had  of  him  since  he  left,"  she  explained  as  I 
opened  the  soiled  yellow  sheet. 

It  was  not  dated  or  located. 

"Dear  Molly,"  it  began,  "this  is  written  from 
the  top  bunk  of  an  ambulance.  I  am  in  it.  Wade 
furnished  the  thousand  dollars  he  gave  me  when 
I  left  Berton — all  except  fifty  cents.  I  do  not 
know  who  gave  that.  He  is  a  queer  duck;  bound 
me  to  secrecy.  But  in  case  anything  happens 
the  people  should  know.  I  am  all  right.  This 
has  been  a  great  experience,  well  worth  such  a 
life  as  mine.  Tell  Wade " 

Here  the  scrawl  ended.  I  looked  up,  to  see 
the  tears  running  down  Molly's  cheeks. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  333 

"I  always  said  Doctor  Edd  was  a  good  man," 
she  sobbed  softly,  "and  he  was  brave,  too;  always 
fighting  in  his  own  lost  ditch;  never  giving  up,  as 
any  other  man  might  have  done,  getting  drunk 
so  often." 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  about  that  thousand 
dollars,  Molly?"  I  began,  after  we  had  talked 
enough  about  Doctor  Edd.  "Every  Baptist  and 
Presbyterian  in  this  town  thinks  the  Methodist 
Church  gave  it.  And  we  didn't." 

"You'd  better  call  Sister  Warren  and  tell  her. 
It's  the  quickest  way  to  tell  everybody,"  Molly 
suggested  simply. 

"Charlotte  is  not  speaking  to  me  now,"  I 
objected. 

"Why  ain't  she  speaking  to  you?" 

"Because  when  I  heard  that  Tom  Warren  was 
getting  ready  to  prefer  charges  against  Brother 
Wade,  I  said  somebody  ought  to  prefer  charges 
against  him  for  backbiting  the  preacher,  and,  as 
a  steward,  for  not  paying  him  anything  to  live  on; 
and,  as  a  church  member,  for  keeping  up  that 
feud  with  Roger  Peters  about  the  line  fence.  She 
told  me  I  had  better  attend  to  my  own  business. 
I  told  her  that  was  what  I  was  doing  as  a  Christian 
woman.  She  said  I  was  a  Christian  busybody. 
You  know  how  Charlotte  goes  on  when  she  gets 
mad,"  I  concluded. 


334  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

Molly  looked  at  me.  I  will  not  say  that  her 
expression  was  accusative,  but  there  was  a  mild 
judgment  in  her  eye  which  made  me  feel  like 
Charlotte's  twin  sin.  And  I  changed  the  subject 
by  telling  her  how  little  there  was  in  the  parsonage 
pantry. 

I  wouldn't  give  a  fig  for  Molly's  courage,  or 
for  her  wisdom,  when  it  comes  to  putting  up  a 
fight  for  principles;  but  she  is  the  best  woman  in 
this  church  when  it  comes  to  simple  good  deeds 
that  she  can  do  with  her  two  hands. 

"I'll  just  go  round  among  our  members  to 
morrow  and  get  some  things  for  the  preacher," 
she  said,  bidding  me  good-night. 

So  that  was  done.  It  was  now  only  two  weeks 
before  the  Annual  Conference  met.  Molly  would 
provide  enough  supplies  to  keep  Lum  out  of  mis 
chief.  Meantime,  I  resolved  that  Tom  Warren 
should  not  bring  reproach  upon  Felix  Wade  if  it 
was  possible  to  work  up  a  better  sentiment  in  the 
church.  But,  first,  Brother  Wade  must  give  me 
standing  rights  to  make  such  an  appeal;  so,  with 
out  telling  him  what  was  on  foot,  I  told  him  a  few 
things  for  his  own  good. 

"You  have  no  right  to  impose  your  convictions 
upon  the  members  of  this  church,"  I  said.  "We 
are  trained  to  pay  so  much  every  year  on  the 
various  assessments." 


A  Circuit  Rider  s  Widow  335 

He  listened  patiently,  as  a  man  does  sometimes 
when  he  is  convinced  against  his  will. 

"It  is  your  duty  to  ask  for  these  various  amounts 
and  leave  it  to  every  man's  conscience  to  give 
what  he  chooses.  You  have  then  placed  the  re 
sponsibility  where  it  belongs,"  I  argued,  so  shrewdly 
that  he  laughed. 

"Very  well;  I  will  announce  the  assessments 
next  Sunday,"  he  agreed. 

And  he  did;  but  his  manner  of  doing  it  only 
added  insult  to  injury. 

"Brethren,"  he  began  abruptly  at  the  close 
of  the  sermon,  "this  church  paid  twenty-one 
hundred  dollars  last  year,  all  told,  for  pastor's 
salary  and  general  collections,  and  four  hundred 
for  church  repairs.  Of  our  two  hundred  members 
a  hundred  and  fifty  are  children,  or  persons  un 
able  to  pay  anything.  There  was,  therefore,  an 
assessment  of  nearly  fifty  dollars  a  head.  The 
sum  collected  probably  amounted  to  more  than 
these  members  pay  in  civil  and  municipal  taxes." 

You  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop  when  he  paused 
for  a  moment,  as  if  he  was  considering  the  next 
statement.  Tom  Warren  was  staring  at  him  as 
if  he  had  lockjaw. 

"The  burden  this  year  has  not  been  so  great," 
he  went  on  coolly,  "for  you  have  been  able  to 
save  eight  hundred  dollars  on  the  pastor's  salary; 


336  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

but  the  general  assessments  are  the  same.  These 
amount  to  nine  hundred  dollars.  Of  this  sum  the 
various  Sunday-school  collections  come  to  three 
hundred.  You  have,  therefore,  six  hundred  to 
raise  for  Missions,  Home  and  Foreign,  church 
extension,  education,  widows  and  orphans,  hos 
pital,  and  superannuates.  I  leave  it  entirely 
with  your  own  consciences  how  much  you  pay. 

"Brother  Warren,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  amen 
corner,  "you  and  Brother  Parks  will  please  take 
the  collection." 

As  the  two  stewards  passed  in  and  out  of  the 
pews  we  could  hear  nickels  and  dimes  clinking 
together  in  the  collection  baskets.  Brother  Wade 
was  entirely  out  of  sight,  seated  behind  the  pulpit. 

The  amount  collected  was  seven  dollars  and 
sixty  cents! 

"Thank  you,  brethren,"  said  Brother  Wade, 
rising  to  receive  the  collection.  "We  will  sing 
the  oToxology." 

A  man  can  look  in  the  face  very  much  like  a  dog 
looks  with  his  tail  drawn  between  his  legs.  And 
that  is  the  way  the  members  of  our  church  looked 
as  we  sneaked  out. 

"That's  no  way  to  take  a  collection!"  snorted 
Tom  Warren  in  deep  disgust. 

"He  called  your  bluff  though,"  I  said,  edging 
closer  to  him  in  the  crowd.  "After  all  the  fuss 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  337 

you've  made  about  these  collections,  preferring 
charges  against  your  pastor  for  neglect  of  duty!" 

"Madam—      "  he  began. 

"Don't  'Madam'  me,  Tom  Warren!"  I  inter 
rupted.  "I  saw  you  drop  a  dime  in  that  basket 
when  you  know  and  everybody  knows  you  always 
give  fifty  dollars." 

"But,  Sister  Thompson "  Sam  Parks  began. 

"Don't  'Sister'  me,  Sam!"  I  cut  in.  "You  put 
in  but  twenty -five  cents !  All  because  the  preacher 
didn't  stand  up  and  crack  jokes  and  jolly  the 
money  out  of  your  pockets,  as  if  the  Lord's  house 
was  an  auctioneer's  hall ! " 

By  this  time  we  were  upon  the  pavement. 
Brother  Wade  was  still  in  the  study  behind  the 
pulpit.  And  I  held  an  impromptu  open-air  meet 
ing  for  the  benefit  of  the  clergy  so  long  as  there 
was  a  single  man  or  woman  in  sight. 

It  is  not  so  bad  to  be  a  termagant  in  the  name 
of  the  Lord,  sometimes,  if  you  know  the  right 
spiritual  moment  for  staging  the  scene. 


CHAPTER  VIH 

IN  NOVEMBER  of  that  year  a  bishop,  thir 
teen  presiding  elders,  and  four  hundred 
itinerant  preachers  met  in  the  principal 
Methodist  Church  of  a  town  not  twenty  miles 
from  Berton.  This  was  the  Annual  Conference  of 
the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church  South,  a  strictly 
military  as  well  as  Christian  organization,  with 
the  Methodist  Discipline  in  use  as  the  Manual  of 
Arms.  Therefore,  this  was  in  the  nature  of  an 
autumn  review  of  the  cavalry  and  infantry  of  the 
church,  where  every  soldier  would  be  called  upon 
to  stand  up  for  character  inspection,  then  to  tell 
what  he  had  done  for  the  Lord  that  year  and  how 
much  money  he  had  collected  for  the  church.  It 
is  a  good  system,  probably  the  best  ever  originated 
by  any  Christian  church,  but,  like  all  systems, 
subject  to  strange  abuses. 

When  the  conference  opened  something  like  five 
hundred  preachers,  including  superannuates,  filled 
the  house.  It  was  not  a  "fine-looking  body  of 
men."  They  were  not  remarkable  for  the  in 
telligence  of  their  expression.  Strictly  of  the 
fisherman  type  of  Jesus'  day  I  should  say,  or  from 

338 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  339 

the  ranks  of  society  out  of  which  most  privates  are 
taken,  with  an  occasional  sleeked-up  city  pastor  or 
presiding  elder  among  them,  showing  at  a  decided 
disadvantage  in  the  rows  upon  rows  of  dingy 
Methodist  itinerants,  who  indicated  so  plainly  the 
hardships  through  which  they  had  passed,  the  dull 
weariness  of  a  long  struggle,  a  little  worsted  in  the 
fight  as  common  soldiers  will  be,  especially  if  they 
have  fought  the  powers  and  principalities  of  dark 
ness  for  a  whole  year  with  a  mutinous  church  choir 
instead  of  a  military  band  to  cheer  them  on  to  the 
fray. 

A  house  filled  with  men — tired,  anxious  men  in 
rusty  coats — is  a  sombre  spectacle.  One  misses 
the  mitigating  circumstances  of  the  flowers  and 
feathers  upon  women's  hats  among  the  cropped 
heads  and  gray  heads  and  the  peeled-onion  crowns 
of  extremely  bald  heads. 

But  there  was  one  foreign  note,  a  row  of  men  and 
women  seated  far  back  in  the  frigid  zone  of  the 
church.  This  might  be  called  a  more  or  less  violent 
quotation  from  the  human  scriptures  of  the 
Methodist  Church  at  Berton.  It  was  capital 
ized  at  the  end  next  the  aisle  by  Charlotte  and  Tom 
Warren  and  italicized  at  the  other  end  by  one 
Mary  Thompson.  Sam  Parks,  John  Henry  Lip- 
ton,  and  Roger  Peters  occupied  the  space  between 
these  two  extremes.  Charlotte  wore  her  furs  and 


340  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

a  full-blown  red  velvet  rose  with  a  black  plume  on 
her  hat.  She  looked  like  a  grenadier  general  who 
was  about  to  break  somebody's  sword  across  her 
knees.  I  wore  the  same  things  I  always  wear,  with 
my  black  quilted  satin  bonnet  tied  under  my  chin 
and  my  old  fur  cape  which  has  been  scalloped  by 
moths  round  the  edges.  I  had  my  spectacles 
adjusted  so  that  I  could  poke  my  neck  out,  hold 
my  head  high,  and  thrust  my  chin  well  forward, 
which  has  always  been  the  angle  of  vision  I  need 
when  it  is  necessary  to  keep  my  eye  on  the  situa 
tion. 

Rumours  were  abroad  concerning  the  church  at 
Berton,  always  a  storm  centre  by  reputation  in  the 
Conference.  Charges  had  been  preferred  against 
Felix  Wade  by  one  of  the  stewards.  The  other 
stewards  and  many  members  had  sent  in  a  written 
counter  defense  of  the  pastor.  No  one  had  ever 
heard  of  such  a  preacher  in  that  conference.  For 
it  was  established  beyond  doubt  that  he  had 
privately  contributed  a  large  sum  to  the  Red  Cross 
work  in  the  war  zone.  He  had  also  maintained 
a  hospital  for  typhoid  fever  cases  at  the  factory 
near  Berton,  where  there  was  not  even  a  Methodist 
mission  to  explain  his  activities.  He  maintained 
this  hospital  by  selling  his  very  fine  motor  car.  The 
inference  was  that  he  had  private  means,  yet  evi 
dence  showed  that  he  had  no  means  at  all,  and  that 


A  Circuit  Rider  s  Widow  341 

he  had  suffered  for  the  actual  necessities  of  life  be 
cause  the  church  paid  less  than  one-third  of  his 
salary. 

We  were  in  the  very  spotlight  of  publicity, 
stared  at  from  every  angle  and  corner  of  the  house, 
for  we  were  recognized  as  members  of  this  afflicted 
church,  some  of  us  come  to  defend,  others  to  accuse 
this  erratic  man  who  as  pastor  had  served  faith 
fully,  but  had  refused  to  hold  a  revival  for  our 
famished  souls,  and  had  taken  the  general  collec 
tions  at  the  last  minute,  apparently  under  protest. 

If  a  pastor  gives  satisfaction  he  may  be  trusted 
to  attend  the  Annual  Conference  without  so  much 
as  a  lay  delegate  as  an  iota  subscript.  But  if  three 
or  four  old  Shanghai  rooster  stewards  and  a  couple 
of  elderly  frizzly  hen  women  show  up  from  his 
church  at  Conference,  this  is  a  sign  that  there  has 
been  a  row,  and  they  have  chased  him,  with  wings 
dragging,  to  fight  to  a  finish  beneath  the  very  nose 
of  the  bishop  and  in  the  presence  of  "  all  'Christian 
people." 

Promptly  at  nine  o'clock  the  Conference  was 
opened  with  the  singing  of 

0  happy  day,  that  fixed  my  choice 
On  Thee,  my  Saviour  and  my  God! 

The  old  hymn  rolled  like  a  hallelujah  cannonade 
against  all  earthly  sorrows.  Still  no  one  looked 


342  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

happy.  Hymns,  however,  are  not  designed  to  ex 
press  the  joys  you  can  see  with  the  naked  eye.  So 
maybe  these  itinerants,  dusty  and  tired  from  the 
long  march  of  the  year's  gospel,  were  happy  in 
their  doleful  way,  just  to  be  there  for  a  few  days' 
rest  and  to  hope  in  a  better  appointment  next  year. 

The  bishop  read  a  selection  from  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount.  This  was  almost  painful  to  us  from 
Berton  who  had  heard  Brother  Wade  preach  from 
these  Scriptures  so  often  without  doing  us  much 
good. 

Then  we  were  led  in  prayer — not  too  close  to  the 
Throne  of  Grace.  As  I  bent  and  wedged  myself 
down  between  the  pews  with  great  difficulty,  the 
spaces  not  having  been  designed  to  accommodate 
an  opulent-bodied  old  lady,  I  could  see  us  kneeling 
in  the  dust  of  our  own  spirits  afar  off,  while  the 
bishop  had  one  knee  up  and  one  knee  down  far  in 
advance  of  us,  addressing  the  Lord  like  a  "prince 
of  the  church  "  with  sonorous  phrases.  I  may  be  a 
barbarian  or  I  may  be  a  human  democrat,  but  I 
never  liked  that  term,  a  "prince  of  the  church." 
There  are  no  princes  among  the  children  of  God. 
But  the  title  has  some  vogue  among  Methodists  of 
high  degree. 

I  do  not  know  if  it  was  because  I  was  so  un 
comfortable  in  that  tight  place,  or  if  it  was  because 
I  have  a  natural  feminine  spite  at  men — those  who 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  343 

exalt  themselves  upon  their  knees — but  I  began  to 
get  mad  with  that  bishop,  who  was  praying  an  un 
conscionably  long  time.  I  thought  of  something 
which  happened  to  a  little  old  blue-hen  saint  I 
knew  years  ago.  She  was  a  good  woman  with  a 
fiery  temper.  She  used  to  sell  eggs  and  butter  to  a 
certain  bishop's  family.  One  day  as  she  was  about 
to  leave  the  house  the  great  man's  wife  said  to  her: 

"Be  careful  as  you  go  out,  the  bishop's  on  the 
porch.  Don't  make  a  noise.  You  might  disturb 
him.  He  may  be  thinking." 

The  little  old  country-church  Methodist  seized 
her  egg  basket  with  one  hand,  her  nose  with  the 
other,  lifted  her  head  high  in  the  air  and  walked 
past  the  "prince  of  the  church"  as  if  she'd  die  be 
fore  she'd  smell  a  Pharisee. 

By  this  time  our  bishop  was  barely  getting 
started  with  his  petition  about  what  he  wanted  the 
Lord  to  do  for  the  church.  You  might  have 
thought  the  Methodist  Church  was  the  spiritual 
bobbin  of  creation,  and  all  these  preachers  were 
only  the  thread  wound  on  the  bobbin.  He  didn't 
even  mention  them. 

I'm  not  complaining.  I  merely  say  that  old 
John  Elrod,  who  lived  and  died  a  consistent  mem 
ber  of  our  little  church  at  home,  could  beat  him  so 
far  in  the  eloquence  and  proper  spirit  of  prayer  that 
they  were  not  in  the  same  class.  When  John  was 


344  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

called  on  to  lead  in  prayer  he  got  down  on  both 
knees,  then  he  bent  his  back  very  low,  and  put  his 
bald  head  down  so  far  you  couldn't  see  even  the 
red  fringe  on  the  back  of  it.  Then  he'd  use  some 
little  simple  words,  very  timidly,  as  if  he  were  pull 
ing  gently  upon  the  hem  of  the  Lord's  garment, 
just  to  let  Him  know  he  was  very  bad  off  and 
wished  to  speak  to  Him  privately  upon  a  matter  of 
life  and  death. 

By  this  time  we  all  felt  as  if  we  were  there  close 
up  beside  John  who  was  doing  the  talking  for  us. 
We  were  no  longer  men  and  women.  We  were 
little  children  who'd  been  doing  wrong,  fighting 
and  scratching  maybe,  but  our  Heavenly  Father, 
who  knew  from  what  mixed  and  dangerous  dust 
we'd  come,  would  surely  have  mercy  upon  us,  see 
ing  that  we  "wished  to  do  better  and  be  better," 
which  was  the  simple  way  Brother  Elrod  always 
put  it.  Many  a  time  I  have  risen  from  my  knees 
feeling  for  the  moment  young  and  blessed  as  if  I'd 
slipped  the  yoke  of  my  years.  But  now  when  I 
struggled  up  and  sat  down  at  the  close  of  that 
bishop's  prayer  I  felt  as  if  I  were  near  to  having  a 
stroke  of  apoplexy. 

Sometimes  lately  I've  feared  Felix  Wade's  in 
fluence  has  been  bad  for  me.  I'm  still  hungering 
and  thirsting  after  righteousness,  but  I  am  not  the 
blindly  obedient  church  worker  I  once  was.  I  only 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  345 

obey  because  I  do  not  know  how  to  disobey  without 
hurting  my  conscience.  One's  conscience  becomes 
a  fixed  habit,  like  any  other,  and  it's  dangerous  to 
try  to  change  it  in  one's  old  age. 

The  next  thing  in  order  was  the  fixing  of  "the 
Bar  of  the  Conference."  This  was  a  way  the 
bishop  had  not  exactly  of  separating  the  sheep 
from  the  goats,  but  it  felt  very  much  like  that. 
All  those  who  were  not  actually  members  of  the 
Conference  were  requested  to  get  up  and  get  out, 
leaving  more  space  for  the  preachers  on  the  floor. 
We  were  assigned  to  a  gallery  which  ran  along  the 
back  of  the  church. 

I  felt  very  personal  to  myself,  filing  out  along 
with  the  other  Berton  Church  goats,  for  we  were 
about  the  only  people  present  who  had  to  go. 
Charlotte  thought  she'd  lead  the  way,  but  I  backed 
out  into  the  aisle  on  the  other  side  and  beat  her  to 
the  gallery  stairs,  which  I  climbed  in  time  to  get  a 
seat  by  the  only  window  up  there. 

When  I  am  in  a  house  I  always  like  to  sit  be 
side  a  window,  even  if  the  wind  cuts  under  it 
like  a  knife,  so  as  to  make  sure  nothing  escapes 
me  on  the  outside  which  can  be  seen  from  the  in 
side.  This  is  important  at  our  Annual  Confer 
ence,  because  a  good  deal  of  the  most  secret  work 
of  the  church  is  done  privily  upon  the  curbstone 
where  two  or  three  are  gathered  together.  You 


346  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

never  see  a  presiding  elder  in  these  groups  or  any 
preacher  who  has  won  his  spurs  in  the  itinerancy 
and  now  holds  the  best  city  pastorate.  Neither 
are  they  the  circuit  riders  who  never  expect  to 
get  any  but  the  poorest  appointments.  They  are 
usually  aspiring  preachers,  in  the  gratuitous  em 
ploy  of  their  own  interests,  or  possibly  they  are 
sent  out  as  scouts  to  test  the  feeling  about  such 
and  such  a  man  or  to  measure  by  some  one  higher 
up.  But  if  you  come  back  ten  years  later  a  good 
many  of  them  will  be  elders  and  city  pastors, 
sitting  in  the  front  of  the  house,  doing  a  lot  of 
conference  business  in  the  open,  and  carrying  the 
administrative  burdens  of  the  church  with  great 
dignity  and  patience. 

I  could  see  some  of  these  heirs  apparent  to 
prominent  places  working  in  and  out,  looking 
very  honest  and  simple,  as  indeed  they  are.  For 
nothing  is  more  honest  or  simpler  than  proclaim 
ing  to  the  whole  world  what  you  seek  while  you 
are  struggling  to  get  it.  I  sat  there  watching 
them,  chuckling  a  little  to  myself  at  the  beautiful 
artlessness  of  these  young  preachers.  I  sym 
pathized  with  them.  There  are  souls  to  save 
everywhere.  The  harvest  is  as  ripe,  and  even 
riper,  in  a  rich  church  than  it  is  on  a  poor  circuit. 
These  men  had  families  to  support.  And  they 
wanted  better  appointments  for  this  very  decent 


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"THE  OVERCOAT  OF  A  STRUGGLING  METHODIST  ITIN 
ERANT  IS  LIKELY  TO  BE  FADED  BY  THE  WEATHER  OF 
LONG  TRIPS  THROUGH  THE  COUNTRY" 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  347 

reason.  Now  and  then  one  of  them  would  start 
off  down  the  street  at  a  clipping,  worldly  pace, 
with  his  long,  religious-looking,  black  coat-tails 
flapping  behind  him  in  the  November  gale.  This 
meant  he  was  the  bearer  of  useful  information  to 
his  elder  or  to  some  committee  in  session  at  an 
other  church.  One  thing  touched  me — so  many 
of  them  were  without  overcoats.  Not  that  they 
did  not  possess  them,  but  the  overcoat  of  a  strug 
gling  Methodist  itinerant  is  likely  to  be  sadly  the 
worse  for  wear,  faded  by  the  weather  of  long  trips 
through  the  country,  with  the  tail  pockets  in 
variably  stretched  out  of  shape  by  the  things  he 
brings  home,  gifts  from  generous  members,  such 
as  a  mess  of  spareribs  tied  up  in  dark  brown  paper, 
or  maybe  a  dozen  links  of  sausage  carefully  wrapped 
in  a  flour  sack.  Such  a  coat  is  no  proper  garment 
for  the  couriers  of  their  superior  officers,  so  they 
button  their  long-tailed  preaching  coats  elegantly 
about  them  and  try  not  to  look  cold  in  the  bleak 
November  weather. 

Others  may  say  what  they  please  about  these 
anxious  young  ravens  of  the  Lord's  ministry, 
but  they  have  my  full  support  and  sympathy. 
It's  knowing  how  to  caw  and  flap  their  wings 
which  attracts  the  attention  of  those  higher  up 
in  the  branches  of  the  church.  If  I  were  a  young 
preacher  I  would  pray  to  my  Heavenly  Father 


348  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

night  and  day  to  give  me  the  faith  of  ravens,  the 
harmlessness  of  a  dove,  and  the  wisdom  of  seven 
serpents  for  dealing  with  my  bishop  and  his  elders. 
There  is  no  doubt  at  all  in  my  mind  that  the 
Lord  would  answer  such  a  prayer  if  it  was  necessary 
for  the  good  of  the  preacher's  sick  wife,  say,  or 
that  he  might  have  a  better  school  for  his  children. 
There  is  probably  no  large  gathering  of  men  in 
the  country,  from  an  undertakers'  convention  to 
a  bankers'  association,  which  transacts  business 
with  greater  dispatch  than  the  officers  of  a  Metho 
dist  Conference.  They  can  have  a  discussion 
over  the  charter  of  some  institution  which  belongs 
to  the  church,  and  get  their  own  legal  council  free 
of  charge  by  allowing  their  lawyer  lay  delegates 
to  speak.  They  can  get  long  reports  from  all 
the  church  boards,  and  from  every  pastor;  take 
up  fifteen  collections;  listen  to  seven  sermons; 
place  four  hundred  preachers,  moving  them  back 
and  forth  over  the  state  of  Georgia  and  through 
all  the  districts,  until  the  presiding  elders  are 
calmed  if  not  satisfied  wTith  the  ones  they  get. 
They  can  examine  from  ten  to  twenty  applicants 
for  the  ministry,  ordain  a  dozen  deacons  and 
elders,  try  two  or  three  upon  charges  preferred 
against  them,  and  do  it  all  in  time  to  take  the 
early  morning  train  exactly  one  week  from  the 
day  the  Conference  meets. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  349 

As  I  looked  down  from  the  gallery  upon  that 
company  of  four  hundred  preachers  my  heart 
ached.  Many  of  them  were  the  victims  of  secret 
complaints  made  by  their  people  to  their  presiding 
elder.  The  young  ones  were  so  diffident,  fearful 
that  they  should  not  be  able  to  pass  their  trial 
examinations,  that  the  report  they  must  make  of 
their  work  would  be  unsatisfactory;  and  last,  but 
not  least,  waiting  in  anguished  suspense  lest  they 
should  not  get  a  better  appointment  another 
year,  or  fearing  that  they  would  lose  the  good  one 
they  had  this  present  year.  You  may  call  it 
happy  day,  if  you  like,  that  fixes  any  man's  choice 
on  the  Methodist  itinerancy  as  his  life's  work,  but 
my  belief  is  that  it  is  the  parent  of  many  sad  days 
which  no  man  could  endure  with  the  courage  these 
men  show  if  the  Lord  was  not  his  shepherd  through 
the  valleys  and  shadows  of  these  ever-lengthening 
circuits,  as  well  as  being  with  him  beside  the  still 
waters  in  the  green  pastures.  I've  been  in  the 
church  a  long  time,  and  I  have  not  seen  much 
still  water  and  very  few  green  pastures  for  a  Metho 
dist  preacher.  So,  I  say,  my  heart  was  with 
those  dingy  soldiers  of  the  Faith  down  there  on 
the  conference  floor,  waiting  with  only  the  Lord 
knows  what  trepidation  for  their  fate.  There 
were  self-seeking  men  among  them,  a  few  poli 
ticians,  one  or  two  Judases;  but  the  overwhelming 


350  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

majority  of  them  were  honest,  faithful  men,  living 
more  by  the  spirit  than  by  the  meagre  quarterage 
they  receive  for  their  services. 

Something  like  half  a  million  dollars  of  the 
church's  funds  passes  through  the  hands  of  these 
four  hundred  preachers  every  year.  No  one 
watches  them,  no  one  can  possibly  check  up  their 
accounts.  Yet  I  have  never  heard  of  one  who 
was  accused  of  stealing,  though  he  might  be  re 
duced  to  selling  his  books  to  keep  food  for  his 
family.  I  doubt  if  this  can  be  said  of  any  other 
four  hundred  men  gathered  together  haphazard 
as  these  are  from  every  walk  and  condition  of  life. 

I  could  hear  from  where  I  sat  an  old  presiding 
elder  making  a  plea  for  a  preacher  in  his  district 
who  was  ill  and  could  not  come  to  Conference. 
The  bishop  was  suspicious — for  the  good  of  the 
church,  of  course.  How  sick  was  the  absent 
brother — would  he  be  able  to  take  an  appoint 
ment  another  year?  The  elder  was  for  the 
preacher.  He  could  not  be  sure  he  would  be 
able  to  take  work,  but  he  earnestly  advised  that 
he  should  not  be  deprived  of  the  chance.  He  was 
like  a  tender  friend  who  lets  a  palsied  man  down 
through  the  roof,  not  to  be  cured,  but  merely  to 
be  fed. 

There  was  another  elder,  shaped  very  much 
like  Moab's  washpot,  who  had  been  our  pastor  at 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  351 

Berton  when  he  was  young  and  slender.  I  re 
membered  pinning  a  red-flannel  bandage  under  his 
chin  and  over  the  top  of  his  head  when  he  had 
mumps.  He  took  everything  hard — his  religion, 
his  work,  and  the  mumps  nearly  killed  him.  Now 
he  was  one  of  the  bishop's  many  right  hands,  a 
man  who  had  gone  as  far  as  he  could  in  the  church 
without  one  blemish  upon  his  reputation,  except 
that  he  would  not  "take  anything  off  of  anybody." 
He  was  known  upon  one  occasion  to  preach  with 
a  gun  at  his  feet  in  a  tent  meeting  which  he  held 
on  a  mountain  moonshine  circuit,  when  the  dis 
tillers  tried  to  run  him  out. 

We  could  see  another  man,  making  himself  very 
prominent,  prancing  back  and  forth  from  one  front 
side  to  the  other  front  side  of  the  pulpit.  He 
looked  like  a  Thanksgiving  turkey  with  a  Roman 
nose,  dressed  in  a  Prince  Albert  suit. 

William,  my  husband,  could  never  bear  this 
man,  though  William  was  the  most  forbearing 
Christian  I  ever  knew.  He  said  he  was  built  too 
close  to  the  ground.  It  was  a  queer  description 
and  didn't  mean  anything  definite,  but  it  fitted 
this  preacher  like  the  negative  does  a  camera. 
Everybody  knew  him — a  man  who  had  gained 
prominence  somehow  by  failing,  with  a  great  and 
righteous  fuss,  at  everything  he  was  appointed 
to  do.  His  last  fiasco  was  to  split  one  of  our 


352  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

largest  churches  with  a  moral  wedge  that  he'd 
driven  into  the  board  of  stewards,  which  is  no 
place  to  use  violent  methods  morally.  So  now 
he'd  been  kicked  up  into  a  connectional  office, 
where  if  he  did  no  good  he  would  do  less  harm. 

It  is  remarkable  how  much  alike  all  men  look 
when  they  are  sitting  down  with  their  backs  to 
you,  and  you  have  no  way  of  recognizing  them 
by  the  length  of  their  legs,  which  I  have  always 
said  are  the  most  prominent  properties  they  have. 
For  a  long  time  I  could  not  distinguish  Brother 
Wade  from  the  other  preachers  seated  below.  I 
was  beginning  to  wonder  if  he  was  sensible  enough 
to  stay  outside  with  the  more  progressive  seekers 
of  the  church,  when  I  discovered  him  by  his  up 
standing  cowlick.  He  was  seated  close  against 
the  wall,  not  too  far  forward  and  not  far  enough 
back  to  give  the  impression  of  being  either  sulky  or 
embarrassed.  I  could  not  see  his  face,  but  the 
cross-legged  comfort  with  which  he  leaned  in  his 
corner  implied  the  repose  of  a  detached  listener 
and  observer  of  what  was  going  on.  The  entire 
length  of  the  bench  intervened  between  him  and 
the  next  preacher  who  had  apparently  quarantined 
himself  against  this  man  in  the  corner,  whose 
people  had  preferred  charges  against  him,  and 
who  might  be  a  heretic  for  all  he  knew. 

This  is  one  of  the  evils  of  a  good  but  autocratic 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  353 

church  organization.  The  bishop  and  elders  have 
power  of  life  and  death  over  these  men,  in  that 
they  can  reduce  any  preacher  to  the  ranks  no 
matter  how  important  a  position  he  has  held  be 
fore,  if  he  is  suspected  of  disloyalty  to  the  policies 
promulgated  by  the  episcopacy,  or  if  he  shows  too 
much  sympathy  with  another  recalcitrant  brother. 
Some  years  ago  a  prominent  presiding  elder  of 
this  Conference  wrote  a  book.  This  was  not  so 
bad,  for  many  preachers  do  that  on  the  sly,  but 
they  have  the  prudence  never  to  publish  them. 
This  elder  made  the  mistake  of  doing  that.  I 
never  dared  to  read  the  book  myself,  but  a  good 
many  people  did,  and  it  was  said  to  have  something 
in  it  about  evolution  which  might  be  interpreted 
as  a  reflection  upon  the  Adam  and  Eve  accuracy 
of  certain  Scriptures.  The  next  year  the  author 
was  reduced  from  his  eldership  with  a  salary  of 
perhaps  three  thousand  dollars,  to  a  little  one-horse 
charge  with  a  salary  of  less  than  a  thousand.  This 
is  the  very  effective  method  of  court-martial  em 
ployed  in  our  church.  And  why  not?  If  you 
choose  to  be  a  Methodist  itinerant  it  is  your  duty 
to  abide  by  the  doctrines  and  discipline  of  the 
organization.  That  little  dried-up  middle-aged 
preacher  seated  so  discreetly  remote  from  Brother 
Wade  knew  what  he  was  about,  and  he  was  quite 
right  to  maintain  a  theological  distance  from  an- 


354  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

other  preacher  under  suspicion — the  bread  and 
butter  of  his  family  next  year  might  depend  on 
that. 

fi  I  were  a  Methodist  itinerant  I  would  never  use 
the  word  evolution.  It  is  a  bad  word,  more 
dangerous  than  any  blasphemy.  I  cannot  bear  to 
hear  it,  especially  in  the  pulpit.  It  makes  the  cold 
chills  run  down  my  back. 

I  began  to  understand  why  this  was  so  as  I  sat  in 
the  gallery  watching  the  members  of  that  Annual 
Conference.  Evolution  is  a  psychic  form  of  im 
migration.  You  are  born  and  bred  to  one  set  of 
ideas,  confirmed  in  one  religious  creed — ideas  as 
warm  and  comfortable  as  the  house  in  which  you 
live — a  creed  stretched  here  and  tightened  there  by 
long  use  and  experience.  Then,  some  day,  you 
stumble  upon  the  fact  that  your  ideas  are  not  yours 
at  all,  but  inherited  from  other  folk.  Your  roof 
begins  to  leak.  You  get  the  notion  that  you  are  a 
person,  not  a  cell  in  a  church  organism.  You  de 
sire  to  worship  God  according  to  the  emergencies 
of  your  own  particular  soul.  That  is  to  say,  you 
migrate,  a  very  perilous  business.  You  may  be 
come  the  victim  of  your  own  evolution.  I  sighed 
and  thanked  my  Heavenly  Father  that  there  were 
very  few,  if  any,  Immigrants  of  this  kind  upon  the 
conference  floor.  The  most  dangerous  man  in 
sight,  I  suspected,  was  Felix  Wade.  And  he  was 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  355 

headed  back  toward  the  Beatitudes,  which  is  not 
the  direction  usually  taken  by  evolutionists. 

One  incident  of  this  first  session  is  impressed 
upon  my  mind. 

The  Annual  Conference  of  the  Methodist 
Church  is  as  distinctly  a  masculine  organization 
as  a  political  convention.  And  it  is  likely  to  re 
main  so  long  after  women  obtain  the  ballot  and 
become  national  committeemen  in  a  Presidential 
furor.  No  other  organization  in  this  world  is  so 
opposed  to  the  recognition  of  women  as  the  govern 
ing  powers  of  the  church.  It  is  the  worst  example 
of  taxation  without  representation,  for  probably 
two-thirds  of  the  membership  in  every  Christian 
denomination  are  composed  of  women. 

I  was  just  thinking  of  this,  wondering  at  the 
neatness  with  which  all  reference  to  the  service  of 
Christian  women  was  avoided,  when  some  one 
handed  a  telegram  to  the  bishop. 

He  opened  it;  then,  looking  up,  he  admitted 
slowly : 

"A  message  from  the  Women's  Baptist  Union 
now  in  session  at  Savard,  saying,  'John  fifteenth 
chapter,  fourth  verse.' ' 

He  had  to  find  the  reference  and  read  it,  though 
it  was  apparent  that  he  had  no  use  for  John's 
Gospel  in  this  connection.  He  flirted  over  the 
leaves  of  the  Bible  rapidly,  and  let  us  have  it. 


356  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"'Abide  in  me,  and  I  in  you.  As  the  branch 
cannot  bear  fruit  of  itself,  except  it  abide  in  the 
vine;  no  more  can  ye,  except  ye  abide  in  me.'  We 
will  now  have  the  report  on  education,"  he  con 
cluded,  with  not  so  much  as  the  period  pause  be 
tween  the  reading  of  the  quotation  and  the  next 
item  in  the  order  of  business. 

I  don't  know  that  I  have  snickered  out  in  church 
since  I  was  a  child  until  that  morning,  seated  in 
the  dark  gallery  above  that  Annual  Conference,  and 
that  bishop  so  mad  that  he  looked  really  natural 
and  sinful.  Every  time  I  thought  I  was  quieting 
down  the  artless  humour  of  the  situation  laid  hold 
of  me  again,  and  I'd  go  off  in  another  paroxysm  of 
scandalous  mirth.  Some  old  Baptist  lady,  her 
spirit  perpetually  damp  with  baptismal  dews,  her 
doctrinal  soul  wrapped  round  this  favourite  text 
of  all  Baptist  preachers,  had  chosen  it  in  defiance 
to  send  as  a  message  to  the  Methodist  Conference, 
or  she  did  it  in  the  simplicity  of  her  heart,  having 
no  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things.  But  the  effect 
was  awful  and  it  was  diabolically  funny.  So  I 
held  my  sides  and  laughed,  being  the  only  person 
in  the  house  who  dared  so  much  as  bat  his  eye  until 
the  breach  had  been  covered  two  pages  deep  by  the 
report  on  education.  Charlotte  looked  round  once 
and  spit  at  me  with  her  eyes.  This  changed  my 
mind  from  the  Women's  Baptist  Union  to  her, 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  357 

which  is  always  a  sobering  line  of  reflection  with 
me. 

When  we  were  all  crowding  out  of  the  church  at 
the  close  of  the  session  I  found  myself  wedged  be 
tween  a  preacher  whom  I  did  not  know  and  a  pre 
siding  elder  whom  we  used  to  have  on  our  district. 
He  said  he  was  glad  to  see  me  there,  and  I  said  it 
was  a  great  privilege  to  be  there. 

"Why  is  it,  Brother  Elks,"  I  asked  as  we  pressed 
forward  toward  the  steps,  "that  nothing  is  ever 
said  about  the  work  of  Christian  women  in  the 
church!" 

"Every  preacher  reports  the  condition  of  the 
Woman's  Home  and  Foreign  Missionary  Societies 
on  his  charge,"  he  answered,  as  if  that  settled  it. 

"But  I'm  not  speaking  of  that.  We  are  also 
members  of  the  church  itself.  We  do  a  lot  of 
work  in  it,  the  same  kind  which  is  duly  reported 
when  the  stewards  do  it — they  are  even  given 
credit  for  it  sometimes  when  we  do  it,"  I  explained. 

Brother  Elks  was  very  busy  trying  to  get  through 
the  jam  of  loitering,  laughing,  talking  people.  One 
might  almost  have  thought  he  was  fidgeting  to 
escape. 

"This  morning,"  I  went  on,  following  him  down 
the  steps,  "the  pastor  of  the  Grassdale  Circuit 
below  Berton  reported  two  hundred  dollars  which 
we  raised,  he  said,  for  repairs  on  the  Grassdale 


358  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

Church.  That  was  misleading,  dishonest.  The 
we's  who  got  that  money  were  she's.  The 
women  earned  and  contributed  every  dollar  of  it 
with  their  chrysanthemum  shows  and  festivals." 
I  knew  well  enough  why  that  pastor  did  not  tell 
who  painted  and  repaired  his  church  for  him.  He 
knew  that  neither  bishop  nor  elders  would  have 
liked  it  if  he  had  given  credit  where  credit  was  due. 

One  night  we  had  a  great  sermon  from  the 
greatest  preacher  and  the  most  distinguished  man 
in  all  Southern  Methodism.  The  Conference  took 
on  a  sort  of  glow.  It  seemed  to  me  that  some  of 
the  old  men  were  exalted  prophets,  with  their  faces 
shining  the  reflected  glory  of  the  speaker's  tran 
scendent  eloquence.  I  felt  like  shouting  myself. 
Everybody  was  in  the  spirit,  you  might  say,  they 
were  so  moved  and  excited. 

About  the  time  the  very  heavens  seemed  to 
open,  and  we  could  almost  see  the  angels  ascending 
and  descending,  something  happened.  Two  or 
three  men  arose  from  different  parts  of  the  church 
and  made  their  way  to  the  outer  door. 

"What  do  they  mean,  leaving  at  such  a  mo 
ment?"  I  whispered  to  Sam  Parks,  who  was  sitting 
beside  me. 

"They  are  rich  laymen,"  he  explained,  grinning 
broadly.  "The  preacher's  about  to  take  up  a  big 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  359 

collection.  They  are  going  down  into  the  base 
ment  until  it's  over." 

This  is  exactly  what  happened.  That  man  who 
had  stirred  us  with  the  very  fires  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
now  faced  about  and  began  to  jolly  the  crowd  for 
money  he  wanted. 

I  shall  not  tell  what  the  cause  was.  It  is  enough 
to  say  that  it  was  the  enormously  expensive  project 
of  an  enormously  rich  church,  requiring  a  very 
large  sum. 

During  the  next  half-hour  he  collected  several 
thousands  of  dollars  from  the  Conference;  that  is  to 
say,  chiefly  from  the  Methodist  preachers — nearly 
all  of  whom  are  poor  and  more  than  half  of  them 
desperately  poor.  They  may  have  wanted  to  give, 
but  in  any  case  they  had  to  do  it.  Some  of  them 
saddled  themselves  with  subscriptions  that  night 
which  it  would  take  them  years  to  pay.  There 
was  much  laughter  and  chaffing  back  and  forth. 
Still,  it  was  a  holdup,  pure  and  simple,  and  the 
highwayman  was  a  "prince  of  the  church." 

I  knew  many  of  the  preachers  who  were  signing 
these  subscription  blanks.  And  I  could  see  the 
poor  little  faded  wife  in  some  parsonage  among  the 
Georgia  hills  who  had  not  had  a  new  winter  frock 
maybe  for  years,  who  had  pinched  and  denied  her 
self  for  her  children  and  for  her  husband  that  he 
might  have  a  new  suit  to  wear  to  Conference. 


360  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

I  looked  at  Felix  Wade — I  thought  he  should  be 
satisfied  with  this  reckless  generosity  of  the  poor. 
But  evidently  he  was  not.  He  sat  regarding  the 
great  man,  who  was  squeezing  them  of  their  dol 
lars  down  to  their  very  dimes,  with  a  deep  frown 
between  his  eyes.  I  understood  him  well  enough 
to  know  his  thoughts.  He  would  have  approved 
if  these  itinerants  had  given  the  very  coats  off  their 
backs,  provided  they  gave  to  one  poorer  than  them 
selves,  but  never  to  enhance  the  wealth  of  the 
church,  no  matter  how  specious  the  arguments 
employed  to  show  how  much  the  church  needed 
what  it  really  only  wanted. 

I  climbed  into  the  gallery  on  the  fourth  day  of 
the  Conference  a  few  minutes  later  than  usual.  I 
was  the  only  person  there.  Charlotte  had  gone 
back  to  Berton  on  the  previous  day.  But  where 
were  the  four  stewards  from  our  church?  So  far 
they  had  attended  every  session,  giving  their 
whole  attention  to  what  was  going  on.  I  knew  they 
were  still  in  town,  for  Brother  Wade's  trial  would 
not  be  held  until  Friday,  and  Sam  Parks,  Lipton, 
and  Peters  had  come  to  defend  him  against  War 
ren's  attack  and  to  assure  the  bishop  that  we 
wanted  him  returned  to  Berton. 

I  was  looking  about  over  the  Conference,  think 
ing  perhaps  they  had  slipped  in  to  get  better  audi 
ence  of  the  reports  and  discussion,  for  we  did  not 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  361 

always  hear  what  was  being  said  in  the  gallery. 
Suddenly  I  saw  something  which  took  my  breath. 
I  adjusted  my  glasses,  bent  far  forward,  and  looked 
again.  No,  I  was  not  mistaken.  There  was  old 
Torn  Warren  seated  beside  Felix  Wade,  with  his 
arm  lying  along  the  top  of  the  bench  and  curved 
in  an  intimate,  brotherly  manner  about  Brother 
Wade's  shoulders.  The  latter  leaned  a  barely 
perceptible  angle  in  the  opposite  direction.  War 
ren  was  whispering  and  gesticulating  in  the  most 
friendly  manner.  Brother  Wade  listened  with  a 
kind  of  smile,  not  cordial,  nor  yet  bitter,  but  a 
sort  of  requiescat-in-pace  smile,  as  if  he  were  willing 
for  anybody  who  wanted  it  to  have  the  last  word. 

I  leaned  back  mystified  and  strangely  indignant, 
though  I  should  have  been  glad  to  see  those  two 
men  seated  so  close  together  in  love  and  charity. 

I  happened  to  glance  out  of  the  window,  merely, 
you  may  say,  by  way  of  cooling  my  thoughts, 
when  I  saw  something  else  equally  puzzling.  The 
four  Berton  stewards  were  down  there  on  the 
pavement  with  a  presiding  elder  and  half  a  dozen 
prominent  preachers.  Everybody  was  talking. 
Sam  Parks  worked  himself  in  and  out  of  the  group, 
buttonholing  first  one  man,  then  another.  Lip- 
ton  was  also  explaining  something  to  the  presiding 
elder,  who  would  not  listen.  His  manner  was 
coolly  accusative.  Roger  Peters  joined  in  the 


362  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

defense.  You  can  look  at  a  man  and  tell  when 
he  is  on  the  defensive,  even  if  you  cannot  hear 
what  he  is  saying.  They  all  wrangled  back  and 
forth  before  the  curbstone  audience,  wagging  their 
heads,  spreading  their  hands,  as  much  as  to  show 
how  innocent  they  were  of  whatever  they  were 
guilty.  Sam  left  the  group,  ran  up  the  steps, 
evidently  looked  in.  Then  he  came  back,  said 
something,  and  made  an  indignant  gesture  toward 
the  church. 

I  thought  he  must  have  referred  to  Tom  War 
ren,  scrouged  so  close  to  Brother  Wade,  licking 
him  with  his  long  white  beard,  which  was  a  sick 
ening  sight  to  us  who  knew  how  ruthlessly  he  had 
opposed  and  accused  him. 

The  suspense  was  awful.  The  fact  that  one 
is  a  large  almost  spherical  woman  does  not  mean 
that  one's  mind  cannot  be  elongated  and  hooked 
into  a  starved-eyed  interrogation  point.  I  felt 
exactly  like  that  when  Sam  Parks  came  hastily 
up  the  stairs  and  seated  himself  behind  me. 

"Sam,"  I  began  at  once,  pointing  to  Brother 
Wade's  companion,  "what  does  that  mean?" 

"That  he  has  withdrawn  his  charges  against 
Brother  Wade  and  is  now  apologizing  for  having 
made  them." 

I  could  see  that  Sam  was  jealous. 

"But  why  did  he  withdraw  them?"  I  asked. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  363 

"Because  he's  found  out  who  Brother  Wade  is!" 
he  answered,  sneering. 

"Who  he  is!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Well,  who  he  was,  then,  before  he  joined  the 
itinerancy." 

"A  lawyer  hi  New  York.  I've  known  that  for 
some  time,"  I  answered. 

"A  congressman  from  New  Jersey,"  he  added. 

"A  congressman ! " 

I  could  not  have  been  more  astonished  if  he 
had  called  him  a  fallen  angel  from  Paradise. 

"Yes,  a  rich  man,  who  has  bonded  his  property 
and  given  the  income  to  Christian  charities!" 

We  sat  a  moment  in  silence,  then  Sam  went  on, 
hissing  like  a  fire  when  you  pour  water  on  it — 
he  was  so  mad. 

"Warren  says  he's  sorry  he  didn't  understand 
Brother  Wade  better.  He  wants  him  to  come 
back  another  year.  He  says  if  he'd  only  known 
that  our  pastor — he  calls  him  that  now  with  every 
public  breath  he  draws — had  funds  to  spend  that 
way  he  could  have  directed  him  better,  and  great 
good  would  have  been  accomplished.  But  we  won't 
get  him  back,"  he  added  regretfully  after  a  pause. 

"Why?  "I  asked. 

"Well,  the  whole  thing  is  out  now;  two  or  three 
city  churches  want  him.  I  understand  the  Con 
ference  hopes  to  place  him  in  charge  of  the  hos- 


364  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

pital  work.  But  they  may  all  miss  what  they  are 
after,"  he  concluded,  smiling  grimly. 

"What  are  they  after?"  I  asked. 

"His  money,  of  course.  Rich,  young-ruler 
type,  you  know.  Didn't  exactly  sell  all  he  had, 
but  he  has  legally  turned  over  the  income  for 
charity.  The  rub  is  that  he  belongs  to  the  Belgian 

Relief  Committee  in  A ,  and  most  of  it  goes 

into  that.  Remember  the  mysterious  trips  he 
used  to  take,  and  what  a  fuss  there  was  trying  to 
find  out  where  he'd  gone  and  what  he  was  doing?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes,  though  I  can't  say  that  I  ever  fashed 
myself  that  way  about  Brother  Wade's  private 
affairs,"  I  said  with  dignity. 

"Well,"  answered  Sam,  "he  went  to  executive 
meetings  of  that  committee.  We've  made  a  very 
serious  mistake,  Sister  Thompson.  There  is  no 
denying  it." 

"You've  made  a  mistake,  Sam  Parks,  you  and 
the  other  stewards  who  failed  to  support  him  in 
his  pastorate.  I  don't  know  what  might  have 
happened  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Molly  Brown  getting 
up  food  and  stuff  for  him  that  last  month!" 

"We  thought  he  had  means  of  his  own,"  he 
defended. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  thought,  but  what 
you  did  was  to  hold  back  his  salary!" 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  365 

"Well,  it's  too  late  now  to  do  anything.  Peters, 
Lipton,  and  I  are  going  home  this  afternoon,"  he 
sighed. 

"You'd  better  take  old  Tom  Warren  with  you," 
I  snorted. 

And  he  did  go,  though  Sam  always  insisted 
that  they  showed  the  back  of  their  hands  to  him 
and  let  him  know  what  they  thought  of  him. 

Every  preacher's  character  must  be  passed 
before  he  is  allowed  to  read  the  report  of  his  year's 
work.  When  his  name  is  called  his  presiding 
elder  shouts  back,  "Nothing  against  him!" 

But  if  there  is  something  against  him  he  shouts 
that,  too. 

When  the  name  of  "Edmund  Pathe"  was  called 
by  the  secretary,  his  presiding  elder  arose  and  said : 
"There  is  a  charge  of  immorality  and  maladmin 
istration  against  this  brother.  We  are  trying  him 
now  in  the  basement." 

These  words  were  distinctly  audible  in  every 
part  of  the  house.  The  victim  was  seated  in  full 
view,  but  no  man  looked  in  his  direction.  He  was 
covered  with  this  shamed  charity  of  his  brethren. 
The  bishop  went  on  with  what  he  was  doing,  as 
if  a  man's  honour  had  not  perished  in  the  breath 
of  those  words.  Later  we  heard  that  he  had 
"come  clear"  of  the  charges  against  him.  But 


366  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

will  anything  ever  clear  his  reputation  of  that 
stain,  so  idly  flung  against  him  defenseless? 

This  can  happen  to  any  Methodist  preacher, 
no  matter  how  innocent  he  is.  Charges  may  be 
made  against  him  which  fall  upon  him  like  a 
thunderbolt  out  of  a  clear  sky  when  his  name  is 
called  at  the  Annual  Conference  under  question 
number  twenty-two  in  our  Discipline.  As  a  rule 
he  knows  beforehand  what  is  in  the  wind,  but  not 
always. 

The  fear  of  this  awful  publicity  may  constrain 
some  preachers  to  live  more  discreetly  and  to  be 
warily  prudent  toward  the  soul-sick  lady  who  is 
the  serpent  coiled  especially  for  them,  just  as  the 
fear  of  everlasting  torment  drives  some  ruffian 
souls  to  seek  forgiveness  and  membership  in  the 
church.  But  I  never  liked  this  kind  of  damnation 
gospel  to  sinners,  and  I  do  think  the  most  brutal 
sight  I  ever  witnessed  was  that  presiding  elder 
announcing  grave  charges  against  a  man  who 
looked  as  if  he  had  died  beneath  the  blow;  and  still 
stared  in  front  of  him  with  wide,  horror-stricken 
eyes.  And  he  was  proved  innocent,  which  must 
have  increased  his  anguished  sense  of  injustice. 

My  ear  caught  the  name  of  "Walter  Bliss."  I 
remembered  him  forty  years  ago  on  the  Berton 
circuit.  He  was  young  then,  so  young  in  his 
spiritual  life  that  he  still  was  joyful,  radiating 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  367 

courage,  hope,  and  faith  with  no  effort,  simply 
because  he  was  young,  innocent,  hopeful  of  a  long 
life  in  the  ministry.  "Nothing  against  him!" 
shouted  the  presiding  elder. 

Then  Walter  Bliss  stood  up. 

I  should  never  have  recognized  this  gray, 
withered  shade  of  a  man.  All  the  hardships  of 
the  years,  the  weariness,  the  failures — they  were 
written  like  an  epitaph  upon  this  scrawny  figure, 
as  if  there  had  not  been  room  for  this  sorrowful 
script  in  the  wrinkles  upon  his  brow.  It  was 
written  all  over  him — in  the  sag  of  his  shoulders, 
in  his  trembling  knees,  in  his  arms  sticking  out 
from  his  body  like  the  picked  wings  of  a  bird. 

He  had  not  risen  in  the  Conference,  as  we  say. 
He  had  always  been  sent  to  the  poorest  circuits, 
where  the  labour  was  hardest,  and  the  salary 
meagre  to  the  point  of  dried  fruit  for  quarterage. 
But  for  forty  years  when  his  name  was  called  the 
presiding  elder  had  always  to  answer,  "Nothing 
against  him!" 

It  is  a  long  time  to  be  good. 

He  read  his  report.  He  admitted  that  he  had 
not  been  successful  this  year.  One  inferred  that 
he  never  had  been — only  faithful.  He  was  ab\e 
to  collect  about  50  per  cent,  of  his  assessments. 
His  salary  had  not  been  paid  in  full.  He  had  held 
four  revivals,  but  had  not  received  many  acces- 


368  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

sions  to  the  church.  Yes,  he  had  baptized  quite 
a  number  of  infants. 

That  was  all,  but  still  he  stood,  like  a  man  col 
lecting  his  feeble  strength  for  a  final  effort. 

"I  wish  to  take  the  superannuate  relation,"  he 
said,  as  simply  as  that. 

He  was  done  at  last.  He  had  gone  down  in 
the  struggle.  No  more  circuits,  no  more  long 
journeys  through  snow  and  sleet  to  a  church  where 
maybe  not  three  people  came  to  hear  him  preach 
that  day.  Never  again  the  struggle  to  get  his 
paltry  assessments,  no  more  revivals  with  sinners 
crowding  the  altar  with  him,  bending  above,  teach 
ing  them  the  great  secret  of  penitence  and  love. 
Henceforth  he  would  be  only  an  old  preacher  with 
nothing  more  to  suffer,  and  nothing  more  to  do. 
It  was  awful  to  be  so  bereaved  of  his  Lord's 
service. 

He  remained  standing.  He  wished  to  say  some 
thing  about  those  forty  years  in  the  itineracy. 

But  the  bishop  did  not  see  him.  He  called  for 
the  next  report.  Not  a  word  of  praise  or  sympa 
thy  for  the  man  who  had  just  finished  giving  his 
life  for  the  church. 

The  old  preacher  slipped  slowly  back  into  his 
seat,  looking  vaguely  confused.  How  had  it  hap 
pened?  He  was  about  to  say  something.  But  the 
bishop  did  not  seem  to  know  that. 


A  Circuit  Riders  Widow  369 

Sometimes  I  know  that  I  am  not  a  sufficiently 
patient  Christian.  I  know  it  with  deep  regret  and 
a  certain  violent  satisfaction.  And  this  was  one  of 
the  times.  I  wanted  to  jump  up,  lean  over  the 
balcony  rail,  and  shout: 

"  Stop !  That  old  man  wants  to  say  something. 
It's  his  last  chance  as  a  Methodist  itinerant.  Give 
him  the  floor  and  holler  'Amen ! '  for  him." 

If  I  had  done  that  they  would  have  removed  me 
for  disturbing  public  worship,  I  reckon. 

But  of  course  the  bishop  had  his  side.  He  was 
in  command  of  a  church  conducted  according  to 
military  ideas.  When  an  old  cavalry  horse  falls  in 
the  fight  the  general  doesn't  go  down  and  close  his 
dying  eyes.  He  charges  straight  ahead,  which  is 
the  right  way  if  he  is  to  get  anywhere.  But  it  cer 
tainly  does  look  very  bad  to  see  him  doing  it  in  the 
church  of  God.  I  don't  say  it  is  wrong — I  say  it 
looks  heartless. 

As  the  names  of  the  preachers  are  arranged 
alphabetically  for  this  investigation  of  character, 
Brother  Wade's  name  would  come  near  the  close 
of  the  session — for  they  managed  to  pass  at  odd 
times  only  thirty  or  forty  each  day. 

On  Friday  morning  they  were  as  far  down  as  the 
Smiths  in  the  conference.  There  are  several  Ts, 
one  or  two  Us  and  Vs,  then  before  I  could  brace 
myself  the  secretary  called,  "Felix  Wade!" 


370  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"Nothing  against  him!"  responded  the  pre 
siding  elder. 

Brother  Wade  stood  up  and  read  his  astounding 
report. 

This  is  made  out  on  blanks,  furnished  with  the 
printed  heads  under  which  reports  are  to  be  made. 
It  is  a  good  plan  and  saves  time.  The  preacher  is 
not  supposed  to  wind  himself  or  the  Conference 
with  explanations  of  why  he  did  so  well  or  so  badly 
with  his  work  that  year.  He  is  expected  to  reduce 
the  whole  thing  to  numerals,  recite  them  and  sit 
down,  merely  privately  asking  the  Lord  to  have 
mercy  upon  him  if  he  has  raised  only  10  per  cent, 
of  his  assessments,  which  I  reckon,  until  this  day, 
was  the  lowest  report  of  that  kind  ever  made  by  a 
member  of  this  Conference. 

There  was  a  curious  stillness,  a  significant  con 
centration  of  attention,  as  Brother  Wade  held  up 
that  little  narrow  cream-coloured  slip  of  paper. 

1.  No  accessions  to  the  church. 

2.  No  revivals  held. 

3.  One  conversion. 

4.  Sunday-school  assessments  paid. 

5.  Less  than  one  per  cent,  of  conference  collec 
tions  paid. 

6.  No  salary  assessed  for  pastor.     Three  hun 
dred  dollars  paid. 

7.  Five  infants  baptized. 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  371 

It  must  have  taken  him  less  than  one  minute  to 
read  these  items.  Then  he  resumed  his  seat,  folded 
his  legs,  and  left  his  cowlick  to  speak  for  itself. 

The  Bishop  stared  at  him  in  petrified  amazement. 
The  members  of  the  conference  eased  their  necks 
round,  as  if  they  wished  to  resume  a  front-face 
position  without  being  suspected  of  visual  curiosity 
in  this  man  who  had  just  damned  himself. 

In  the  midst  of  this  appalling  stillness  our  pre 
siding  elder  stood  up. 

"Bishop,"  he  said  in  low  tones,  "Brother  Wade 
desires  to  surrender  his  credentials  and  his  license 
to  preach.  There  is  nothing  against  him,  and  he 
has  stood  with  credit  his  examinations  for  the  com 
ing  year." 

This  added  assurance  that  there  was  nothing 
against  him  was  important.  If  charges  are  pre 
ferred  against  a  preacher  he  cannot  surrender  his 
ii cense  until  after  the  trial.  If  he  is  found  guilty 
the  church  demands  them.  So  this  was  the  earliest 
possible  moment  when  Brother  Wade  could  have 
been  relieved  of  his  duties. 

The  elder  advanced,  laid  these  credentials  on 
the  bishop's  desk,  and  the  incident  was  closed. 
The  business  of  the  Conference  proceeded  with 
the  usual  machine-like  precision. 

I  sat  like  a  poor  old  publican  in  the  dark  gallery, 
the  only  representative  of  the  church  at  Berton, 


372  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

which  somehow  I  felt  had  been  weighed  in  the 
scales  and  found  wanting.  We  had  had  the  light, 
and  we  preferred  darkness,  at  least  a  well-shaded, 
world- tin  ted  cover  for  our  prayers  and  deeds. 

Momentum  gathered  by  more  than  a  hundred 
years  of  progress  will  carry  as  large  a  body  as  a 
Christian  organization  a  long  way  before  it  begins 
to  wobble. 

The  great  Methodist  Episcopal  Church  South 
was  certainly  moving  swiftly  and  directly  to  the 
ends  it  held  in  view — of  being  a  rich  and  powerful 
influence  chartered  in  the  name  of  God — but  I 
felt  dimly  that  things  were  not  so  well  with  us  as 
they  should  be.  The  atmosphere  of  an  Annual 
Conference  is  not  spiritual,  because  it  is,  strictly 
speaking,  a  business  meeting,  called  to  audit  ac 
counts  and  assign  the  work  of  the  church  for  an 
other  year.  All  the  fine  sermons  one  hears  at  a 
conference  do  not  entirely  conceal  the  real  nature 
and  purpose  of  the  body. 

This  is  as  it  should  be,  of  course.  I  am  not 
complaining,  I'm  only  explaining  why  I  felt  very 
low  in  my  mind  and  very  humble  in  my  soul  as  I 
sat  up  there  in  the  brown  gloom  of  the  balcony. 
I  could  not  see  the  people  on  the  conference  floor 
below.  My  eyes  were  holden  by  tears  which 
changed  everything  into  a  dark  moving  mist.  I 
could  still  hear  the  sharp,  incisive  voice  of  the 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow  373 

bishop,  saying  something  about  church  exten 
sion. 

Then  I  heard  the  quick,  elastic  tread  of  some 
one  coming  up  the  steps  into  the  gallery.  The 
next  moment  Felix  Wade  slipped  into  the  seat 
beside  me. 

We  sat  there  in  silence  for  I  know  not  how  long, 
with  the  rasping  voice  of  the  advancing  church 
cutting  the  air  as  the  bishop  continued  his  ex 
hortation. 

"You  have  been  good  to  me,"  Brother  Wade 
said  finally. 

I  fumbled  in  my  reticule,  took  out  my  handker 
chief  and  wiped  the  tears  from  beneath  my  glasses. 
But  I  could  not  stop  my  lips  from  primping. 

"You  have  held  up  my  hands,"  he  went  on. 

I  looked  round  at  him  and  met  the  familiar, 
half -tender,  half -humorous  smile. 

"We  needed  you,  Brother  Wade,"  I  whimpered. 
"We  are  sorry  to  lose  you." 

"But  I'll  never  lose  you,  dear  lady.  I'll  re 
member  you  all  my  life  as  the  fair  weather  of  a 
hard  season,"  he  said  gently.  "I  could  not  go 
without  telling  you  that." 

"But  you  are  not  going  now!"  I  exclaimed. 

"At  once.  I  have  an  important  engagement 

in  A to-night.  Lum  meets  me  there,"  he 

said,  rising  and  holding  out  his  hand. 


374  A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 

"You  will  not  return  to  Berton,"  I  held  out, 
"to  pack  things?" 

"No;  that  is  already  done — except" — he  looked 
at  me  like  a  boy  making  a  present  to  his  grand 
mother — "except  the  painting  which  you  remem 
ber  hung  over  the  fireplace  in  the  parsonage  par 
lour.  I  have  ventured  to  bequeath  that  to  you." 

The  next  moment  he  was  gone.  I  dropped  back 
in  my  seat,  feeling  as  a  mother  must  feel  after 
bidding  her  favourite  son  good-bye  who  is  already 
on  his  way  to  the  wars.  And  I  could  not  comfort 
myself,  because  I  did  not  know  what  would  become 
of  him. 

The  bishop  was  still  speaking  about  the  im 
portance  of  church  extension.  But  I  thought  I 
would  get  up  presently,  when  I  felt  better,  and  go 
out.  Maybe  I  should  be  able  to  catch  the  noon 
train  for  Berton.  It  did  not  matter  whom  we 
should  get  for  a  pastor — I  made  up  my  mind  to 
let  Charlotte  run  things  next  year.  It  was  her 
kind  of  a  church  anyhow. 


THE   END 


THE    COUNTRY    LIFE    PRESS 
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